Vignettes: Count Down to Season 2
by Hikari no Chibi
Summary: Ten unrelated stories that I wrote to help my friends count down to the season premiere tonight. They run the gambit from K to M, and some are even cross-overs. If you don't like the look of one based on the short Author's Note, you can move on to the next installment without missing anything.
1. The Sound of Silence (PG)

_AN: Hello! This story focuses on the man with the broom in the Storybrooke Asylum as he faces down Doctor Who monsters and wonders about the girl in the cell adjacent. It's very good fun, unless you're a Whovian. Whovians might be a little scared at parts. Once Flew over the TARDIS. Yes. (PG)_

Bromden didn't like the groans and clang of the boiler room pipes, they disturbed the other inmates. He liked perfect silence on his ward, but silence was a relative, flawed thing. The pipes made his knuckles go white around the broomstick and sent shivers down his legs. It sounded like a ghoul, or a wraith. Something lurking just beyond his line of sight that could pounce at any moment and rip him to shreds.

Nurse said it was nothing, but Nurse was lying. Nurse always lied. She couldn't know how the great struts ached against the heating and cooling pipes, hissed at the smallest pressure changes. Nurse didn't understand that the building was screaming, telling the tale of the Girl in Cell Four until it became like a second skin to him: love, cowardice, loss. It took a careful ear, certainly, to make sense of all the lowing and groans cutting through quiet air like a fleck of static on the radio. The barest hint of fingers on cinder blocks spoke contritely of love, while the swish-swish of his broom mingled with the bubbling glurb of hot water rapidly cooling, to sing a song of unfathomable suffering.

Sometimes the Girl in Cell Four would sing too, a little humming melody about a wheel that never stopped spinning, but that story was nonsense — a dream within a dream, memories of a distant life made fuzzy by heavy air and over medication. All out of order, and entirely without a sense of beginning or ending — but still the tune was lovely; Nurse didn't like the humming, but Brom did. It kept the clangers at bay, reminded him to keep tally of the lurching bile that rose in his stomach sometimes, digging his thumbnail into the broom handle — always sweeping, always counting.

In all the ward, the Girl's song was the only thing that ever changed. Nurse thought he was crazy, but then — Nurse thought everyone was crazy. He wasn't though. Not crazy. Things walked into the darkness and never walked back; not every shadow, but any shadow, and the men in the suits with the funny heads… His nail dug into the broom handle. What was he thinking again? Nothing. He was listening, and he wasn't stupid: he could count. 10,227 days since he started sweeping, and nothing ever changed except the singing and the building, groaning in protest at the sheer audacity of it all.

Then, the night he felt the vibration of a thousand clocks simultaneously start ticking run up his feet and nest in his chest, Bromden heard the grinding. Low and warbling, the sound of orange skies, civilizations burning, and angels crying. It was not the sound of drums, of a chieftain's pride or a master's madness. It was not drumming, he reminded himself. There was something… Oh, no. Just the darkness creeping, it was nothing. Bromden notched his broom handle with his thumbnail anyway, to remind himself of something. He wasn't sure what, so he just went on listening for the sounds of feet on cement that he simply couldn't be hearing, and the long draining gurgle of the water heater.

He was afraid when he heard the new sound for the second time.

It was the single most terrifying, hopeful, wonderful, dying sound — bookmarking the beginning and the end of the world — and it originated at the start of all good things: behind the door of Cell Four. It came and went, starting and stopping in cycles of two, always after sundown and again before Nurse brought their medicine. He marked his notched his broom, sure he was supposed to, but not sure why; something he was forgetting, right at the corner of his eye… no, it was nothing. Bromden choked back his rising bile and took the medicine, like a good boy. Nurse said everything was fine. Just the darkness playing tricks again, waiting to devour the first person who set a foot out of line. Sometimes he dreamed of rodents with two shadows, but that simply couldn't be right. Then again, Nurse always lied.

What was he forgetting? His broom was raised defensively, a splinter of wood beneath his thumbnail stung. Bromden paused for a breath, listened for the sound of pipes dripping, and went back to sweeping. There was always silence after the grinding, all he'd ever wanted, and Brom found the lack of scratching-clanging-panic-building more unnerving than he could have ever dreamed.

He wasn't crazy.

"Mr. Bromden," Nurse said, making the morning rounds. He did not respond.

"Chief?" she tried again.

The Girl in Cell Four had returned moments ago, he'd heard the grinding, but Nurse ignored it like all the other noises. She said they had no meaning. She was lying.

"Have you been chewing on this thing?" Nurse asked, pulling the broom from Brom's wide, strong hands. It was covered, top to bottom, in little tallies he'd scratched in — too many to count, lifetimes worth of them. Bromden had never noticed how many.

"Give it here," she demanded, her red-painted lips pressed together, tightly. He didn't want to, but she insisted, and Brom followed her dutifully to the broom cupboard at the end of the hallway. The hospital had a closet full of brooms, each one bearing his little thumb tallies to the point that it did look like gnawing. Bromden did not chew on his broomsticks. The marks — he always made them, and then forgot why — had to mean something.

Nurse fished a new broom out of the back and handed it to him. His palms were already sweaty for the lack of sweeping, a calm ocean of straws on cement midst the hell of clangs and scraping. As Nurse returned to his post, with the pristine broom in hand, he looked down at it again. It bore five scratches already, and he choked back the bile before resuming his position.

If he was the Sentinel, the Girl was the key. Something about the grinding sound, the engines of change that started on the same night as the time. Ten marks on the broom handle now.

This place wasn't right. Nurse didn't see it, but Bromden figured Nurse was probably crazy. He brushed his fingers over the Girl's door, looking for anything to calm his nerves, and he heard her cut off the humming mid-refrain.

"It'll be alright," she told him in a voice that spoke of great power, wisdom, and consoled him in his time of need. "Allons-y."

Fin.


	2. F-ckstruck (NC-17)

_AN: This is a Storybrooke AU with a lot of BDSM. It's not appropriate for vanillas or people who like their fics to make any kind of canon-sense. Dominatrix!Belle AU (NC-17)_

Entering Belle's domain, mixed-up and muddled on the inside as he was, had been a mistake. Emma: lovely name.

The memories might kill him, but he couldn't stay away — knowing she was alive meant everything to him. Besides, he had an appointment. If he missed one, she would be cross and might not agree to see him again, professionally, and in nigh-on thirty years Mr. Gold had never been late.

He craved it, the scent of sweat on leather and raw lust rippling through the air; the bite of a paddle reminding him that, even though he owned the town, he wasn't above being punished for lashing out; the sweet joy of release, kicking him in the gut as he jerked off in the shower, memories of his humiliation fresh in his mental theatre.

Mr. Gold wanted the bitter fruits of Miss French's sound-proofed basement almost as badly as Rumpelstiltskin wanted the soft, kind girl she'd been before the curse. Key word: almost. It really had been a mistake, giving in to his counter-part's baser urges and his own near-crippling desire to see his one true love one more time. Except, now that he was here, he couldn't muster up the will to escape.

Belle. His perfect, sweet girl.

Rumpelstiltskin had to constantly remind himself that, in this place, bound and humbled as he was, she was only to be addressed as Miss French. He knew he could end it at any time, simply by uttering his safe-word and making his apologies, but the part of Mr. Gold that craved her particular brand of punishment, and the part of Rumpelstiltskin that would suffer any defeat simply for the privilege of gazing upon her for a few more minutes simply refused to be cowed.

The spinner would suffer any pain, pay any price, to keep her safe; that she was the one meting out his punishment was only Regina's idea of a cruel irony. She was alive. No matter how the two factions within himself warred over their abrupt awakening earlier that night, Belle was real. The tight leather cuffs around his wrists proved it.

They'd started as they always did: she greeted him wearing nothing but a pair of fuck-me-heels, led him into the fully-furnished dungeon in the soundproofed basement of her home, and asked him to kneel on a thin cushion at the center of the room. She instructed him to strip, cuffed his hands behind his back with a pair of leather restraints, and slipped a thick leather collar around his neck.

When she hovered behind him to attach his collar, he could feel the heat radiating from her exposed core, less than an inch away from his aching fingers. Her pussy, Mr. Gold supplied, dreaming that she'd wrap her legs around his face and refuse to let go until she'd been satisfied. The word didn't feel right to Rumpelstiltskin, though. Belle. His Belle. He shouldn't be thinking about her in those terms.

But if he breathed in deeply or straightened his posture, he could brush up against her — touch her — but the punishment she would give him made him think twice about that course of action. He was not permitted to touch Miss French; she kept a hired-hand on her payroll for just such occasions, and Mr. Gold had no desire to be thrown into the streets sporting a hard-on.

The ceremonial regularity of it all was easy once he willed himself to stillness; the waiting, though…. Rumpelstiltskin found the anticipation titillating in ways Mr. Gold hadn't dared to dream. The wait was going to kill him, and his epitaph would read: Mistakes Were Made — Died Happy.

Belle, his precious Belle, wearing nothing more than a pair of spike-heels and a smile was more than he deserved. She was contrarily too beautiful and too terrible for him to contemplate. It was Belle though, and he could still feel the heat rolling off the apex of her legs as she stood behind him, straddling his bound hands as the collar locked in place. Rumpelstiltskin inhaled, lifting himself the scant distance toward her, more terrified that he might actually touch her so brazenly than that he would get caught trying, but she's already stepped away.

All of his bravery came to nothing, as always, and he felt disgusting for even trying to touch Belle so intimately. Whatever punishment Mr. Gold had paid for, Rumpelstiltskin thought he might actually deserve it if his thoughts kept going the way they'd been going since Emma said her name.

"Have you been naughty this week, Eli?" she asked, a bored look on her face. Rumpelstiltskin could feel himself sweating, shaking, as she lifted his chin to meet her gaze with the firm end of her wicked cat-of-nine. They'd dispensed with the "Mister Gold" civilities after his first consultation, to differentiate between their relative positions. She was Miss French, ruler of this domain, he was just Eli, her willing play-thing.

"Yes, Miss French," Rumpelstiltskin choked out. His pulse throbbed in his cock, and he could feel the slow drip of sweat rolling down his back. He wanted to look anywhere but her eyes, so cold and icy where his Belle's had been sky-blue and tranquil like a summer morning. There was no other choice, though; she expected him to look where and when she said, and he would pay the penalty if he disobeyed.

When Rumpelstiltskin couldn't lose himself in Mr. Gold's need for the sheer power of it all to look his precious Belle fully in the face, he looked past her — choosing a spot on the wall behind her. A sharp heel lodged itself in the middle of his chest, pushing him back onto his haunches.

"None of that, now," Belle — Miss French — scolded. Her entire labia, waxed impossibly smooth, would have been spread open in front of his face if he pushed back and leaned forward. He had never wanted to disobey her so badly in his entire life — the scent of her wrapped around his face would be worth any punishment she deemed necessary.

"How many people did we terrorize for rent, Eli?" she continued, as he leaned forward a fraction of an inch. She must have noticed, because she stepped back and pressed one long, sharp heel directly into the middle of his chest. Rumpelstiltskin could see everything, pink and perfect, for a fraction of a second before she kicked him over into a partial back-bend. The cushion kept him from any real harm, but the strain of the position felt impossibly tight in his legs, and he crumpled sideways, rolling into a shivering little ball of flesh.

"S.. seven," he confessed, body trembling.

Miss French brought the cat-of-nine-tails whip down across his exposed thigh, with a swift crack.

"I said how many, Elli?"

"Ten!" he choked out. Gold always tried to low-ball her, to build up the suspense, but Rumpelstiltskin merely wanted her to think better of him. She'd seen through his lies and posturing in the other world, surely she could see through the pawnbroker too?

"Hm…" Belle paused, thinking it over. "And how many of your little deals did you hatch along with all of that?"

"Only three, Miss French." She stepped away from him, circling around behind him to a place just beyond the corner of his eye.

"Thirteen lashes, I think," she said, finally. "On your feet."

Rumpelstiltskin dragged himself upwards, disbelieving his own eyes even as the thin stripes of welts broke out across his leg. She was real. She had to be real, to leave a mark. The cuffs and collar he could have dreamed, but not the cluster of red stripes decorating his flesh; they had never been part of his dreams before the curse.

"I said on your feet," Miss French snapped, bringing the cat-of-nine to bear again on his good leg. "It'll be twenty if I have to tell you again, with the rattan cane."

He gulped and scrambled to adopt the position Mr. Gold remembered so well — legs spread at shoulder width, head bowed, hands folded behind his back. Rumpelstiltskin's cock was painfully hard, his body still slick with sweat, as Belle circled him. The predatory gleam in her eye both excited and terrified him, but as long as Belle was alive he'd suffer any pain to keep her close to him.

And… loath though the Pawnbroker and Spinner were to admit it, the sight of her so totally in control of him was impossibly sexy. Mr. Gold was, indeed, a dirty, naughty man; and, as all of Storybrooke knew, he had impeccable taste.

"Miss French…" he groaned, as Belle brought him back from his mental holiday by running the firm leather handle of her flail over the ridge of his spine. The leather came down hard on the small of his back, his reminder not to speak unless addressed.

"Go to the bench and bend over, Eli. I'm going to strap you down."

Rumpelstiltskin felt the sweat beading on his brow as he bent over the dark, wooden bench-table at the far end of the room, opposite the St. Andrew's Cross. That she still held the cat-of-nine and not the ferocious rattan cane bode well for him, but he knew he couldn't push his luck. Acting as though he were Mr. Gold and nothing was wrong was going to take all of his focus if she kept up with the strong, forceful lashes. They burned his skin and sent a pulse of lust right to the base of his cock, and he couldn't bear the thought that he would come all over her floor like a little dog who pissed on the carpet at the first sign of trouble.

Miss French unhooked his wrists from behind him and pulled the heavy cuffs over to the bench, where they reattached It left him bent over, powerless to stand upright, with his back and arse exposed, and just enough freedom to shuffle the weight off his bad leg if it started to cramp badly.

"Who did we terrorize this week?" she asked, sounding bored. Rumpelstiltskin confessed his crimes in a litany, the flail ripping away his ability to embellish and reducing him to simple facts. Granny and Ruby, he'd been rude. Archie Hopper, he'd bullied him terribly. Ashley Boyd — words barely stretched to encompass those crimes.

"You've been busy," Miss French remarked, striking him for the tenth — or was it the ninth? — time. "Busy , and very, very naughty."

"Oh, yes," Rumpelstiltskin groaned, brushing the head of his cock against the hard, polished strut that supported the bench. Half of him didn't care any more whether he made a mess of her floor and she kicked him out early, he just wanted the tightness in his stomach and groin to be set free.

The whipping stopped when he'd confessed his last transgression, and his hips bucked involuntarily toward her when she reached around to un-cuff him. He knew he'd smeared her with the beads of sticky pre-come he'd been producing when she tore away her hands and left him strapped to the bench.

"Excuse me," Miss French snarled, upset. "As long as you're down here, Eli, you hold the fuck still when I tell you to. That's disgusting."

He shouldn't have moved.

"I'm going to punish you for that," she told him, laying down the cat-of-nine in front of him — where he could see it — and walking away. "You've been nothing but a disobedient, half-absent bore all night."

"Yes, Miss French," he gasped, shivering. The sweat dripping from his skin felt suddenly cold, impossibly cold, against the hot stripes where the whip's welts were blooming.

"What are you?" Miss French asked, running the edge of her thinly-padded paddle over his back-side.

"A disobedient, half absent bore."

"What else?"

"Disgusting."

"And who does your ass belong to?"

"You, Miss French."

"Say it again," she demanded, pressing a cool paddle into his balls, lifting them up like a prize on the offering plate, making his whole body clench.

"I am yours, Miss French."

She struck him, then, alternating directions and force with a stunning swiftness as he repeated his words.

"I am yours, Miss French. I am yours, Miss French. I am yours.. I'm yours, Miss French." Gold could barely keep track of the words, and the sting of the paddle found every inch of visible flesh, sparing him nothing. He knew he deserved each and every one of them for even daring to come near her while the memories of another life swirled and battled for supremacy inside his mind.

When she was satisfied, twenty strokes later, she left him again. Rumpelstiltskin collapsed onto the bench, now slick with his sweat as much as the continuous surge of pre-come dripping from his cock. He was so close; the slightest friction would be enough, but his hands were trapped at either end of the bench and he could do nothing to ease the fire in his veins or the throb that had spread to the base of his spine.

He was bad, so bad, for wanting to touch her. Rumpelstiltskin knew he'd never deserve her love, nor her favors, and it felt so good to pay the price of his wicked fantasies with his own flesh. She possessed him now, and — with or without the cruel cat-of-nine still sitting directly in front of him — she always would.

Miss French returned, eventually, and released him from the cuffs. She instructed him to sit down on the edge of a low, padded stool, and she knelt to join him. He would have given anything to cover himself, to hide the shame of his hungry cock, sweat-slicked hair, and flushed face.

Rumpelstiltskin looked down, demure, and saw a steaming porcelain basin and a large, natural sponge at his feet.

"Stay still," she ordered, and the tone brokered no arguments. Whatever she was doing to him, it was something new. Mr. Gold hadn't prepared him for this.

He ached from the paddle and the whip, but that was nothing to the sweet agony of Belle giving him a slow, soft sponge bath. She pressed the perfectly hot, lightly scented water to his brow and neck, working her way down his back and stomach. The water reminded him exactly where the cat-of-nine's bite had scored him, but closeness of Belle dulled him to all but the sharpest sensations.

He could kiss her. He could lean in, lose himself in her loose, brown curls and run his lips over her shoulder before she had a chance to strike him. Maybe she would even like it. That was the headiest fantasy of all - that he would misbehave, make a play for her as a bed-mate instead of a dominatrix, and that she would like it.

Barring that, Rumpelstiltskin could even lean forward, just half an inch, and brush his knee against her legs, to confirm she wasn't one of Regina's hoaxes. The pain was fading under her care, a simple nudge to remind him — that was all he needed. He could do anything, anything at all. She hadn't chained him, so she must want him to…

Bile rose in the Spinner's throat. The fear that he would break the spell of her gentleness, lose the sensation of her small hands sponging the sweat and blood from his body when she'd never touched him like this before, utterly crushed his will to rebel.

Rumpelstiltskin wasn't sure he could have moved if she'd commanded him to.

Belle washed him everywhere, except for the one place he desperately needed her to touch. If Miss French wanted him to come, she'd tell him in no shy terms to touch himself. She never did, though. That was part of his punishment, he knew.

Whatever Miss French hoped to accomplish in her caresses — always sponge-to-flesh, never skin-on-skin — she finally seemed pleased with her work and told him he was free to go. He might have been there for nine minutes or nine hours; if time had finally returned to Storybrooke, he hadn't felt it while she held him in thrall.

It took the sound of the closing cellar door to finally pull him out of the fuzzy, half-awake puppet she'd reduced him to. After-care was not part of their arrangement, and he knew he had to collect his things and go.

Miss French would be waiting for him in the foyer, wearing one of her silk robes and waiting to collect her fee. It took Rumpelstiltskin the better part of half an hour to make his way back to Belle. Facing her under the weight of his own shame was a greater burden than the old Spinner could bear, so he pushed Mr. Gold to the front.

The thought that she might remember that other world, might have some lingering sentiment for him, tortured Gold. She'd never given him any measure of tenderness before… the slow, deliberate path of her sponge scarred him more than any leather whip or wooden paddle could.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, voice catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. Gold handed her a blank cheque, dated and signed; she could choose her own price tonight, and he knew it would be a fair one. "Why were you kind to me?"

"You looked like a man lost at sea," Belle replied, opening the door to show him out, "like the smallest touch would drown you."

"I—"

"It seemed the best punishment remaining, honestly: just to work you into a frenzy and leave you adrift in your own misery. I'll see you next week."

Fin.


	3. 8:15, Every Morning (PG)

_AN: This one is nice and fluffy, with a little bit of Red Cricket thrown in for fun. It's a Storybrooke AU, appropriate for pretty much everyone. (PG)_

"Mr. Gold! Mr. Gold, wait up!" shouted Rosie French, racing after the older man she'd spotted leaving Granny's Diner. The old clock tower hadn't worked for as long as anyone could remember, but — for an equally long, and unbroken run of days — Mr. Gold never failed to visit Granny's Diner at 8 AM each morning, pick up a cup of coffee and a news paper, and saunter on down the street at exactly 8:15. The old clock might have only been right twice a day, but it marked a very special time for the girl: it was the time when, every morning without fail, she began chasing after Mr. Gold.

As usual, he didn't pay her any attention, just kept his slightly unsteady gait and walked away — toward his pawn shop. For him, she supposed, 8:15 was the time each day when he began the somber and dutiful work of ignoring her.

"Hey, Mr. Gold," she grinned, finally catching him. The crisp autumn morning left the ghost of her breath on the air, puffing out in little clouds as she caught her breath from running. On the other edge of the sidewalk, Pongo was dragging Archie — nearly knocking the thin man into a parking meter — and they gave Gold a wide berth.

"I have a new knitting pattern this week, here — this is the scarf I told you about last Wednesday," Belle continued, stepping a little further out of Archie's way when Pongo finally broke free and took off at a full sprint toward the Diner. That was the other thing that happened every day: at 8:16, when the clock was just one minute out of sync, Pongo bound into Granny's to get his morning treat.

"Yes, yes, very nice dearie," Gold grumbled, not really looking at the scarf or the shambling therapist chasing after his dog.

"Oh, do you think so?" she grinned back, sounding pleased. "You should keep it, then. I guess you lost the last one I made you."

"It's amazing what the cleaners throw away," he bit back, still walking briskly while she trotted to keep pace. The sound of his cane beat out an irregular rhythm against the pavement, underscored by Archie calling hopelessly for Pongo to sit and stay.

"Well, one man's junk is another man's treasure. I guess that's the whole point of a pawn shop, right?" she asked, beaming at him. Rosie quickly cut off Mr. Gold's path, wrapping her arms around the man — half-hugging him — and twisting the coarse, woolly scarf around his neck.

"It itches," the acerbic pawnbroker remarked, unimpressed. Rosie had been foisting off hand-knitted keepsakes and baked goods on him for as long as the clock had been stuck, and he sincerely didn't want anything to do with any of it. Not that that would ever stop her: not in the least bit — the daily temptation of Mr. Gold as she'd come to call it was her favorite morning ritual. Ruby tossing Pongo a vanilla wafer while the dog ran circles and nearly knocked Archie over in an attempt to keep the waitress to himself was a close second, though, and she could hear the veritable Caucus Race playing out from down the block.

"I'll have to try a finer yarn," Rosie championed, refusing to let the look of bored tolerance on his face get her down. "We can talk about colors over tea and cake later today?"

"I think not."

"Come on, Mr. Gold," Rosie grinned, stepping aside to walk next to him rather than blocking his escape. "One of these days you're just going to have to give in and accept I'm committed to fattening you up a bit."

"Oh yes, your father and I will make quite the set," he sneered, looking down at her — the few inches of height separating them always felt like several feet when he looked down on her and her family.

"I don't think you're anything like my Dad," she told him, holding his gaze and turning suddenly serious.

"Will that be all, Miss French?"

"You can call me Rosie, Mr. Gold," she reminded him. "Or Rose-Marie, or just plain Rose, if you like."

"I could do that, yes," he acknowledged as they finally drew up alongside the door of his pawn shop. He fiddled with the lock as she attempted to say goodbye. That he wasn't going to do so, and had no plans to start, remained unsaid.

"Well how do you feel about something in plum?" she tried again, returning to yarn choices in light of his typical refusal to converse politely.

"It doesn't make one jot of difference to me, dearie," Gold growled, before slipping into his shop — making the bell jingle in time with Pongo's distant barking — and slamming the door behind him.

Rose-Marie French was a public safety hazard. All the slip of a girl, nineteen if she was a day, by his estimation, knew how to do was chatter at him and follow him around like a lost little lamb. The only thing in town more annoying was Dr. Hopper's mongrel-dalmatian, and one day the Mayor was going to sanction both Hopper and Mr. French with a fine for disobeying leash laws. Someone really did need to restrain the child. She said the strangest things, mostly nonsense, and then pressed him to accept irregularly formed, lumpy knitting and slightly crisp cookies.

It all went right into the trash, naturally. He couldn't accept gifts from his tenants, and he didn't want to accept anything from Miss French, anyway. She was pretty enough, in the ultra-casual, homebody way; someone like Archibald Hopper would be dumbfounded by her favors, and so the sooner she started pestering one of the half-dozen or more other pedestrians who crossed their path each morning, the better off everyone would be. Most of her life was wrapped up in taking care of her father's failing floral business, yet — inexplicably — she still found time to annoy him every single morning.

With the old town clock over the library still stuck in place (when would Madame Mayor get around to fixing it?), sometimes it felt like the only way he could count the days was by looking at whatever new monstrosity Rosie French had made.

They weren't that bad, really, but none of them went with his tailored suits or sleek cane and briefcase, so none of them lasted more than the ten or twelve steps it took him to reach the bins in the back room. Once he'd even turned around and walked in the opposite direction of his own shop, tossing the sugar cookies she'd pressed into his hands to Hopper's mutt, but the daft animal only ever wanted the damned wafers the Lucas girl fed it. Rose-Marie, of course, had turned around and — quite literally — taken it all in stride. She simply would not let him be. The woman was a perfectly unrepentant waste of sugar and good wool; it was annoying, nothing more.

Though… she was almost friendly, he supposed. If Mr. Gold had any need for friends, she might have found herself welcome. As it was, the woman infuriated him beyond even the possibility of a carnal understanding, and he was only too glad to be rid of her during the hours when her father's shop occupied her.

Gold heard his little bell before he heard the voice of whoever had entered his shop.

"Mr. Gold?"

"Coming," he called, setting aside a broken clock. He'd have to get the damned thing to Marco one of these days, if he ever wanted to turn a profit on the intricate cogs and woodwork. When he rounded the corner of his work-desk, he was met with the smell of fresh air and the unwelcome sight of Miss French.

"Oh," he groaned, a bit disappointed that she wasn't one of his tenants dropping off the over-due rent. "It's just you."

"Just me," Rosie agreed, grinning at him like always. The foolish little girl didn't know when to leave well enough alone, and it was going to get her into trouble one day.

"Can I help you Miss French? Looking to buy something?"

"Well it is a shop," she agreed. "But no, I'm not buying. I am here on business, though!"

"For a change," he said, glaring.

"Dad wanted me to drop off the rent early; something about paying the piper, but you always struck me more as the spinning kind."

"What is that supposed to mean?" She always spewed this nonsense when she thought no one else was listening, and it gave him a head ache.

"Nothing, nothing," Rosie giggled, lost in her own secret meanings. "Here," she said, offering him a roll of bills as wide as her fine wrist.

"Feel free to leave any time you're ready," Gold sneered back, snatching away the money.

"In that case…"

"No. Wait, that wasn't an invitation…"

"…I think we're way over-due for that tea…"

"…for you to make yourself at home in my place of business, so if you'll just…."

"…and lucky for us, I always carry a couple of bags!"

"…move along, you're dismissed."

Rosie held a pair of old, mis-matched tea cups from his collection and a zip-lock baggie full of instant tea supplies in her hands, and she was looking at him expectantly. He'd moved to the door, and was just about to pull it open, the titter of his bell teasing but not quite releasing its high-pitched peals onto the air. They were at utterly cross purposes, and Gold found it — and the girl — as frustrating as ever.

She left Mr. Gold the same state she always did when she'd cornered him into sharing a cup of tea: huffy, indignant and on the verge of frothing at the mouth. Archie was standing on the street corner, holding Pongo's leash despite how tangled it was with his legs, and the dog was using its rump to push him further and further away from Ruby. Of course Pongo didn't want to share the pretty brunette; the thought of Dr. Hopper competing for attention with a dalmatian made her smile, and she felt her nose wrinkle. It was always the same scenario in the evenings, more or less, and a few seconds later the waitress fished another wafer from her coat pocket for the animal. The trio went their separate ways just as she drew near enough to see the frustrated look on Archie's face, and her thoughts returned to the curt pawnbroker.

He was such a baby sometimes, as though spending twenty minutes in her company was a chore. They could talk about anything, anything at all, if he would ever stop complaining long enough to let her get a word in. Still, much to her friends' and family's chagrin, she wouldn't give up on him. They'd been in Storybrooke for decades, and she had nothing better to do than look for that long-lost spark of recognition in Rumpelstiltskin's face.

Oh well, thought Belle. He didn't remember — none of them did — and she couldn't tell him, for fear of being locked away like some kind of crazy person.

He was still such a magpie, though: collecting everything he could find, obsessing over price — not really understanding the value of any of it, and the only thing he ever threw away was the proof that she loved him. She'd start on yet another scarf that night, one of hundreds she'd made for him that would — like its predecessors — be inevitably thrown away or tossed to the dogs. The best she could do was try again every day, and wait for some small, tiny chip to appear in the unfeeling porcelain veneer of the Mayor's curse.

Fin.


	4. No Turning Back (R)

_AN: This is a OUAT-crossover fic. It features Dr. Nicholas Rush (from Stargate: Universe, played by Robert Carlyle - the same actor who plays Rumpel on Once) and Belle from OUAT. It's set on a spaceship. This is indexed here, instead of in the crossover page, because it was part of the count-down series. If you like this pairing, you can find more on the OUAT Crossover Page! RushBelle. (R)_

"Interface," said Rush, pressing his fingers to his temple and rubbing small circles into his hairline. "Interface," he tried again.

"It's not a verbal sub-system, Nick," Belle told him, groaning from her place beneath the gunner's console. Since unlocking the bridge of Destiny — or, more accurately, since Young discovered that Nick knew where the bridge was located — Rush had been nothing but a pain in her head and a thorn in her side. He was incredibly lucky that she liked him so much, despite the fact that he looked so much like her ex-husband, otherwise marching the chief scientist back to his quarters to get some sleep would be a complete breach of propriety.

"This ship has a telepathic up-link," he insisted. "I should be able to get a response by thinking at it. Verbal commands are child's play for this technology."

"Well maybe you're just not talking on the right frequency," she sighed, scooting out from under the mounted chair. She was, theoretically, supposed to be transcribing the writing and serial codes on all of the ship's hardware. They'd literally "beamed her up" after she solved a word problem in an Internet game, and from that moment on her life started anew as an Ancient translator, lost in space. Well, she was supposed to be a translator — usually she ended up spending most of her day looking after Nick instead. As Young liked to say, he was an awful lot of work.

At least he was always interesting. The index process was boring, but then again… the hardware didn't get snippy for lack of caffeine.

That was precisely their problem, at the moment: Destiny wasn't talking to anyone — not even to throw fits or point out strange anomalies. Usually it inundated Young with dreams, sent specters to Rush, and sang songs to Belle that never quite made sense. None of them were sure why the ship seemed to like her so much, but it was generally agreed that she would be included in the higher-level staff meetings after a little nursery rhyme she'd been humming in the mess turned out to be coordinates for an uncharted planet with a supply of edible plants for hydroponics.

"Well, short of putting someone in that interface chair —"

"Not an option," Belle reminded him. She wasn't about to let Nick put himself at risk like that. Destiny needed him, and — honestly — so did she. He was like her own, private reserve of strength and sanity.

"— I don't know what else we can do to switch frequencies. So how about you keep doing your job and I'll do mine, alright? Interface. Interface. Destiny: bloody-fucking interface."

Belle simply sighed and crawled back under the console. Nick was nothing short of a bastard when he was working on something that didn't want to cooperate with him, herself included, and nothing Belle said or did was ever going to change that. She liked him that way; at least he said what he thought (when there wasn't a dire need for politicking, and sometimes even when there was). It was the constant lying and skirt-chasing that scared her off of Rush's doppelganger in the first place.

If she was honest with herself, the first few times she'd seen Dr. Nicholas Rush, the memories of being Mrs. Gold had nearly choked her. The Mayor's son liked to joke that something bad always happened whenever people tried to leave Storybrooke — Ruby made it all the way to Boston before her Gran's heart attack, that was his favorite example — but, to Belle's thinking, being transported half-unwillingly to Icarus and then getting lost on Destiny was something of a relief. She was free. Oh, but she did loathe that face — at first, anyway. Now, she barely even saw the trappings of her ex-husband when she looked at Nick; he was just himself, no more or less, and Eli Gold was one nasty divorce and a few million light years away from her current location.

"Menu Options," he tried again, thinking aloud and pacing the bridge. "Voice command: bring system display online."

Belle mostly ignored Nick while he was working, and he did the same for her; on the few occasions they did try to collaborate, things tended to go badly. He worked better with Eli, and she got along well with Dr. Park. Outside of emergencies and the Bridge, though, the two of them were nearly inseparable. Those times may have been few, and far between, but Belle savored them, and she knew Nick did too. At this point, though, both of them were due for a sleep rotation starting some time in the next twenty minutes. Belle didn't see much merit in keeping her opinions to herself now, especially when they'd just end up arguing about his health in a few more minutes as she bullied him back to bed for a few hours.

"You could try saying please," she offered, finishing the last of her index notes. Thank God for whichever genius on board found a way to synthesize something that worked like graphite, and they'd managed to pick up paper in one of the Destiny-spawned time paradox towns a few Stargates ago.

"I don't really think that's going to make a difference," Nick snapped back, jotting down thoughts on his rapidly filling notebook.

"Won't know unless you try."

"Won't try," he grumbled under his breath.

Leave it to Nick to completely miss the point of a telepathic up-link. Pathos and emotion had to be involved, at the most fundamental level of coding, otherwise even the most advanced Ancient computers wouldn't be able to calculate out the complexities of the human mind. Belle didn't need an advanced degree to figure that out, it was common sense; even her ex-husband could see the merits in saying please.

"Come on, then," replied Belle, pulling herself up from the floor. She wore her sole pair of jeans and a sports bra, the button-down shirt she owned had been deemed too delicate to risk in the unknowable sea of pressurized fluids and rust that permeated the ship's crawl spaces. Gold would have hated it, he was all about blazer-sets and pant-suits that made her look like a candidate for Mayor, which made sense — considering she'd caught the two of them going at it in the back room of his pawn shop more than once while they were married.

"Bed time," she continued, folding her arms over her chest and giving him her patent no-nonsense librarian glare.

Belle thought she heard the ship humming again as she recalled the childhood of petticoats and Ogre Wars she'd left behind, but she couldn't be sure — it was possible that she was just tired.

"Voice Command: interface on," Rush tried again, ignoring her request.

"Simon says beep twice if you're alive," Belle teased. Rush only glared at her.

"Interface on."

"Interface on, please." Belle was both shocked and delighted when the console screen blinked to life.

"That's… How…" Nick was at a loss for words, an even rarer sight than a properly working Destiny.

"You can play with it in the morning. Nothing's burning up, nobody's dying, and we're not coming out of FTL for another seventy-odd hours; it's time to sleep now. You promised." Belle ran her small hands down his arms. She did her best not to sound smug, knowing it would only serve to infuriate him.

"Just a few more hours," he begged.

"I think you meant to say minutes, and no. Not this time."

"Dammit, Belle, the console is on!"

"Yes, and you could have turned it on eighteen hours ago by pushing a button with your finger instead of shouting and swearing at it all day. Come to bed."

He did come, finally, peeling off his green tee-shirt and sliding it over Belle's head. That she couldn't risk destroying her sole set of clothes helping Brody stay on-top of their engineering needs he could accept, but he'd yet to get over the occasional looks she garnered from walking through the corridors with a few inches of her midsection bare.

Belle could think of scores of situations in which she'd wished for something slightly sexier than an old work-out bra and a button-down since they'd been stranded on Destiny, but — when push came to shove — she was glad to have the comfortable, versatile option instead of the finer, lacy one. She couldn't even imagine pulling a 30-hour shift in a proper bra; it made her skin pinch and itch just thinking about it.

Nick's shirt, frankly, stank. His sweat, hard work, and long hours permeated the fabric, leaving a musk that — while not pleasant — was entirely, uniquely him. Belle found she liked it; it was possessive and protective, not at all as overwhelming as the pungent, alcohol-based colognes her ex-husband used to cover up his flings.

She liked to know she had a place in this new world, a meaningful job and another human being who simply liked to see her by his side in the morning. Gold never trusted her to do anything, and the endless lies and power-plays finally crippled their marriage. He was happier without her, she was safe from his army of lawyers, and — since coming to Destiny and facing down one tragedy after another — Belle was finally getting closer to something like being happy.

Happy. Somehow the emotion felt foreign to her… Ugh, the stink of Rush's shirt was getting a bit on the impractical side. Something needed to be done about that. She took hold of Nick's hand and dragged him toward the steam-showers, deviating from the usual path to their bed. He seemed to catch on to her meaning and, for once, didn't put up an argument.

"Planning to freshen me up a bit, pet?" he asked, the ire and frustrations of their work environment fading from his face and posture.

"Oh yes, Dr. Rush," Belle teased. "You're quite the dirty old man."

Rush pulled Belle into an embrace, grinning against her neck, and scooped her up into his arms. "We'll have to see about that," he rumbled, voice low and ragged, as he carried her toward the showers. She put up a little fight, wriggling against him, but the darkness of his eyes told her everything she needed to know:

They toed off their shoes and entered the showers with their clothes still on; it was best to do laundry in the shower on Destiny, the strangely sticky steam managed to keep most of their things passably clean. Clean was what they needed, but they wanted something else entirely.

Rush had Belle pressed against the wall in the space of three steps, hands buried in her slowly dampening curls.

"I've missed this," he groaned, pressing kisses to her neck. "I miss the taste of you."

"We could always work less," Belle offered, slipping her hands under his white shirt and running her fingers over Nick's chest.

"Hn," he replied, noncommittal. Rush was all about focus, his brain simply never stopped ticking. But when he took that brilliant mind, those long, talented fingers, and intense gaze and turned them on Belle, she knew she rated just as high as the secrets of the universe in Nick's eyes. The feeling was heady, powerful, and she could feel the early harmonies of Destiny singing in her mind as the steam rolled off their bodies.

Whatever they had between them, it felt good. It felt right. That the ship seemed to agree pleased her, but eventually even the sultry song of engines and mystery was driven from her mind as Nick's tongue invaded her mouth and ran over the roof of her mouth

Even if all they did was drift aimlessly until the air and food ran out, Belle couldn't bring herself to regret the circumstances that brought her to Rush. She'd been so lost and desperate in Boston, but this brilliant, broken man needed her the same way she needed him, and she craved him. Oh yes, she craved him like an addict needed a drug.

The brush of his beard against her skin did unspeakable things to Belle, and soon their clothing was soaked, sticking to them, and finally peeled away by greedy hands seeking hidden places.

She ran her hands through Nick's hair, taking his ear lobe between her teeth, and drawing a low moan from him; it was almost a growl. As long as she had this — his arms to embrace her, and his love — then none of the universe's uncertainties could hurt her. And, for as long as he would let her, Belle was going to keep this man safe.

She could feel the proof of his arousal pressing into her abdomen as he ran his fingers up and down her slit, teasing her. Belle took his length into the palm of her hand, and they simply enjoyed touching one another in slow, building strokes while they kissed and nibbled one another's lips.

"Oh Nick," Belle moaned into his mouth. "Don't stop, don't stop… please…" She saw the whole universe in his eyes and heard symphonies in the vibrations of Destiny. This was home, for both of them, and she'd never give it up. Not for anything.

Nick turned Belle to face the wall, cocking her hips to meet his own, and entered her from behind. His thrusts were slow and shallow, but they brushed up against the place that made her want to writhe like a wild-thing, and his hands wrapped around to tease her nipple and clit in time with each dip of their hips.

"Belle," Nick moaned, biting and sucking his way over her shoulder blades and spine. "Oh Belle, my lovey."

"I love you," she gasped, tossing her head back onto his shoulder and offering Nick her neck.

"I love you too," he gasped, leaving marks up and down her shoulders and throat. He loved her. He loved her, and everything else in the universe was going to be alright.

His thrusts were becoming more erratic when Belle felt herself beginning to pulse and throb around him. Belle pushed back from the wall, bending lower to let him thrust more deeply, and they finished together, bent at an angle, with his chest plastered to her back, Nick's arms the only thing anchoring Belle upright.

In the swirling steam, with Destiny's lights dimmed, it was almost as though they'd crossed over into another world — populated by just the two of them; Space was lonely, but they were so rarely alone that it was an utter novelty just to hold one another and bask in the warm, humid air. To Belle, who had seen so much in her long lifetime, it didn't matter if they ever emerged from the foggy cloister.

"I love you," Nick repeated, brushing her hair away to kiss her nape.

Then Belle's world fell away. It all happened in a flash — a burst of air, a tint of color — impossible memories blossomed in her head of a life in a Dark Castle and a kingdom by the sea. She could have sworn that she saw the barest tint of purple, hanging magical and acrid, in the shower's steam. They were going to call her crazy.

It was over before she even knew what was happening, and there she stood — naked, curse broken, and ready to cry. Nick tried to comfort her, not understanding what was wrong, but a kiss made pure by the love of a mother for her son had un-made everything Belle thought she knew in the space of a heartbeat. She was stuck, truly stuck, on Destiny, with Rumpelstiltskin half a universe away.

Belle thought she recognized the song the engines were always singing: it was the song Rumpelstiltskin used to hum when he was spinning.

Fin.


	5. Case No 36 (PG-13)

_AN: This is an experimental piece of fiction, the format of which I borrowed from Pale Fire, with apologies to Nabokov. The basic premise is a Storybrooke AU in which you have found an evidence baggie containing Mr. Gold's notes on a poem written by Belle just before her death. It's like literary detective work - and, oh yes, there are Easter Eggs a plenty. (PG-13)_

**Case No. 36, Storybrooke Sheriff's Office — remanded to evidence by G. Humbert in the case of Isobel French: suicide note, facsimile published by local press, pending review by hospital staff.**

"The Love Song of Isobel French"

Annotated by E. Gold, Esq.

Published in Storybrooke, ME, 1985.

Mirror Press, ed. Sydney Glass

No. 6 of 6 © Gold's Antiques and Pawnbrokering

**Forward**

It pains me to confess that I never spent much time with Isobel French in her lamentably short life. As her greatest fan and posthumous editor, it is my sincere pleasure to bring her words to print.

I first encountered the poetry of Miss French at an estate sale held by her father, Moe, in the spring of 1984. Mr. French was, at that time, "clearing out space" from his garage as his only daughter — Isobel — had committed suicide [Replace: died] some months prior. It is a matter of public record that Miss French threw herself from the roof of the Storybrooke Library at precisely 8:15 in the morning, and died, aged twenty, in the hospital of injuries she sustained from the fall. Eyewitnesses describe the scene as "a sad, messy affair." [Glass, delete. I've told you already, her death was an unfortunate accident and not the result of premeditation.] Mr. French had in his collection a series of very lovely Encyclopediæ previously owned by Isobel, printed in 1902 (Britannica, 10th ed.). I believed they could be refurbished and sold at a profit, so I purchased the lot and had them delivered to my shop.

In the process of curating Isobel's well-used books, I stumbled upon a large number of notes in the margins. Most pertained to distant lands and unfulfilled travel plans, but some contained snips of verse — haiku, couplets, limericks, 29% of a promising sonnet. Her work is both moving in its simplicity and devastating in its emotional complexity. I would caution my readers to take nothing at face-value — think carefully, meaning in verse is rarely skin deep. I have taken the liberty of supplying my own notes on each piece, having spent the most time with Miss French's complete oeuvre.

With no further adieu, I present the sixth and final work of Isobel French — written on the back of a napkin, pressed between pages in the article on Christopher Marlowe, play-write.

— Eli Gold

**The Love Song of Isobel French** [1]

It pleases me to go into the dark, [2]

To birth words [3] running red from

Inky veins [4] and my shattered spark.

Scream, and then the world is numb:[5]

Youth seeping from viscera, [6] crazy

Onlookers gawk as it all slips away. [7]

Under-taken at twenty,[8] pushing daisies. [9]

Rough, hobbled, [10] winter jay — [11]

Fly away with a pair of waxwings [12]

And sing.[13] Fall to pieces on a hard,

Undulating, trembling,[14] wine-dark thing.

Lives are fragments, [15] chipped shards

To please us [16], but I prefer the night [17]

[18]

**Foot Notes**

1. The Love Song of Isobel French is a title of my own choosing; it seemed fitting for Isobel's final work.

2. It pleases me to go into the dark — Isobel has noted in her margin of her napkin simply "Nash?" I fear her meaning in "Nash" is lost to me, but her imagery speaks clearly of love-making. I can envision a darkened bedchamber where a couple might retire of a night, and come together in the frantic passionate tryst she goes on to describe. Hands on hips, lips on skin… the makings of her "shattered spark;" the female orgasm.

3. To birth words — Here Isobel alludes to her own writing, aware — I think — that it must eventually fall into the hands of a collector such as myself. Indeed, I am Storybrooke's only collector. One could make the case that she has written with a future audience in mind, one she may have feared to approach openly, though — of course — she could not have known how soon after her unfortunate passing I would find the Encyclopediæ. It is also likely that she had some inclination to marry and start her own family, as birth is a mother's blessing.

4. Inky veins — Miss French was known by her family to always be writing, often to distraction. Her high school teachers praised her skill with words, and had hoped to see her pursue literature in college. Isobel chose instead to stay and work in her father's flower shop. I understand it was a common sight to see her taking notes on receipts and napkins when she was supposed to be handling the inventory. Clearly she felt the words — literally written in ink — ran under the skin.

5. Scream, and then the world is numb: — It is not my intention to be crass, but I believe she is talking about the post-coital fuzz of a well-loved woman. I have her father's assurance that Isobel never showed any interest in having a boy friend, but, had she not been lost so young, Miss French would certainly have found someone blissfully happy to satisfy her curiosity on the subject.

6. Youth seeping from viscera — Male ejaculate, in keeping with her dark, pleasing bedroom theme.

7. Crazy / Onlookers gawk as it all slips away — A hint of the exhibitionist, in the library perhaps?

8. Under-taken at twenty — I believe she is referring to her single-status, as it conflicts with her erotic fantasies. Had she only looked across the crowded diner, and lived a little longer…

9. pushing daisies — Working at the flower shop, touting the products. Daisies are a boring flower, Isobel was much more of a cherry blossom or a rose kind of woman, I think.

10. Hobbled — Limping, possibly with a cane.

11. Winter jay — An older, probably distinguished gentleman. Also reminiscent of the winter blue jay, common in this area, that hazards hard winters locally and does not migrate to warmer climes. A man for all seasons, certainly.

12. Pair of waxwings — This is my own edit. In the original, Isobel writes "pair of waxed wings," which makes little sense in the context of the rest of her poem; it was probably a small oversight, the result of writing on a napkin while she was probably supposed to be working. Waxwings, Bombycilla cedrorum, are common but pretty birds that inhabit areas of Storybrooke. Most likely she saw a pair of these nesting, passing a flower petal back and forth in their uniquely beautiful act of courtship. It is possible Miss French viewed herself as the petal carried through the air, and — indeed — in her surviving photographs she does look as though she's about to be blown away.

13. And sing — My edit again. The original said "and sink," which must also be a typo — she did jot the whole thing down on a napkin in a single go, after all. Curiously, neither the jay nor the waxwing is a renowned song bird. Then again, Miss French does seem to appreciate the less conventional, possibly over-looked type.

14. Hard / Undulating, trembling — Her fantasy-lover's body; he is an older man who does not deserve her, but to whom she might show favor despite everything. The subsequent words, "wine-dark," belong to Homer, the Blind Bard, bringing to mind immediately a pair of stormy, sea-churning eyes beholding a lovely woman's naked beauty.

15. Lives are fragments — It has been suggested that Isobel suffered from multiple personalities, and that that was the underlying reason for her death by suicide [Again, Glass? Really]. Her father insists that we mention these fragments might have been parts of herself, slowly crumbling. I, however, believe she is referring to herself and her would-be-husband, broken pieces that compliment and complete one another perfectly.

16. To please us — Woman and husband / lover are satisfied, drifting to sleep in a close embrace. His large bed no longer feels empty as she nestles her cheek against his chest and kisses him softly. It is no longer a poem about one, single person, but this newly-forged, mosaic entity.

17. Night — hearkens back to the darkness at the beginning of the poem. "It pleases [her] to go into the dark."

18. The fourteenth line of this would-be sonnet is missing, probably the result of another small over-sight. Though Miss French has broken with convention in her meter and rhyme, any poem of fourteen lines may — in this day and age — qualify as a sonnet. Because she has left this one incomplete, I suggest that the reader take a line from her benefactor to complete the work: "We made love in the fading light." Such is the stuff of dreams.


	6. Binge (NC-17)

_AN: You know what, if you don't know what "Ivelle" is you should probably just skip this one. It's almost 100% not your cuppa. This is an OUAT Crossover Fic starring Colonel Francis Ives, Cannibal (from Ravenous - character played by Robert Carlyle) and Belle. If that sounds like the stupidest effing thing you've ever heard, just go to the next chapter / fic. _

_There's actually a much better introduction to this stuff on the OUAT Crossover Page called "Virility." I... I want to say it's required reading if you really want to "get it." You may not be surprised to know that I wrote that one as well. Anyway, people literally get eaten alive in these fics. This one is less graphic in that respect, but it's still pretty graphic. Are you guys seriously still reading? Well, OK, fine. (NC-17)_

Francis looked like he'd been left out under the warming lights in hell. His stomach was as full as she'd ever seen it, bulging out in a way that had to be uncomfortable, he had blood matted in his beard and dried firmly to his skin, and the way he was walking told Belle all she needed to know about his situation below the belt.

"Oh no," she breathed, running out of their two-story home in the secluded mountains of California to meet him where he stood. He'd gone hunting and found trouble, if the state of him was anything to go by. As a lover and provider, Francis showed such care and restraint for Belle that she rarely saw him lose control. She saw the after-effects, though: when a hunt turned sour, or — on the odder occasions — when someone or something took it to heart to put Ives in self-defense mode, he had a tendency to eat whatever he killed whole and raw.

"How many?" Belle asked him, wrapping her arm around him from the side and encouraging him to lean on her for support.

"Two muggers," he replied, clutching at his stomach.

"Muggers in the National Park?"

"I may have taken a detour."

"Come along, then," she instructed, slowly limping him toward their bedroom. There was nothing for it: no matter how they tried, his body was simply not designed to reject food. No amount of self-preserving attempts to vomit could spare him the uncomfortable after-effects of binge-feeding: a stomach ache, a fever, and an attack of virility that bordered on priapism. She'd seen it all before, yet still had to stop herself from laughing at him; it always made him act like such a baby.

"It hurts, Belle," Ives groaned, grinding himself into her as she helped him lie down.

Belle's eyes dilated at the sensation of his rock-hard cock pressing into her, but calmer senses prevailed.

"First things first," she told him, pressing a soft kiss into his hairline.

When she returned with a bucket (just in case), a bottle of bismuth and a terrycloth, he'd already kicked off his boots and torn loose his pants. She found him spreadeagled on his back, too full to sit upright, stroking himself fiercely.

"Francis, sweetie, you've got to try to sit up for me."

He whined in response, and reached for her again. Belle couldn't let herself be swept away by his libido just yet, so she swatted at his hand and tried again. "Come on, sit up. You need to take some medicine to settle your stomach."

After a few attempts, Belle managed to work him into a half-upright position with a mountain of pillows piled behind him.

"Open up," she commanded, offering him a large spoonful of the pink concoction. Ives just growled, snatched the bottle from their bedside table, and downed it in three gulps.

"This one too," she ordered, and he begrudgingly let her spoon in the final mouthful. It was a road they'd been down before; at least she didn't have to threaten him with airplane noises. As soon as Francis swallowed it down, his self-ministrations resumed at full-speed, and he threw his head back into the pillows to groan when his body finally found release in three hot spurts all over Belle's clean duvet.

She could see that his cock was flushed deep red from the lingering hardness and overwhelming volume of his lust, and he looked chaffed from pumping himself too firmly without any lubrication. The stomach ache the muggers gave him would, at least, ensure he healed quickly; however, it also ensured that he wouldn't be up for much in the way of physically-demanding activity. Belle figured they were in for a long, messy night together.

Almost as soon as he came, Francis began to grow hard again. He moaned his want and pain before wrapping his hand back around himself and resuming his frenzied pace.

"Belle," he groaned, voice hazy. "Please…"

"Not until I've seen to everything," she told him firmly.

Next she fetched some aspirin and tepid mint tea from their kitchen, and helped him swallow down as much as he could. He needed her to help ease his digestion; she hoped he hadn't ruptured any organs this time, because those always took longest to heal and tended to make him sulk for days. Once Belle was sure he hadn't managed to drown himself trying to swallow more fluid, she started to wipe the browning blood from his skin and stripped him of his remaining clothes. She could feel the fever warming his skin, but he would just have to sweat it out.

Ives came again, unable to restrain himself from touching his mate as he did, and Belle indulged him in a kiss.

"You taste like old addict and gin," she told him, licking a bit of the mugger from his skin. She could make them both a thin marrow-broth later, they had plenty of meat in the freezer, but it was nice to kiss him and taste the tang of freshly-spilled blood on his lips.

"You taste like heaven," Ives purred back, already hard again. He grunted in pain as his over-full stomach prevented him from crushing her slender body to his own and claiming her properly.

"Not just yet," Belle said, putting her foot down and extracting herself from his embrace. "You know we have to take care of all of this first," she gestured to the mess still plastered to his chest, "and make sure your fever breaks."

Ives only made a low, whining keen in reply, and Belle hurried herself with his care. He'd glower and pout in the morning, but for the time being he was ruled by two conflicting feelings: one, he was stuffed, which was fundamentally in opposition to the Windego's nature, and two, he was in the throes of an almost inconsolable wave of lust. She knew it all too well — it was easy to get carried away, but Belle's self-control surpassed her mate's in the very first decade of their union. He was still such a wild-thing, and she loved him for it.

The site of him laid out, naked and hard, panting for whatever contact he could get, sent a surge of lust raging through Belle's veins. It was easy to let her annoyance with his gluttony rule her actions when he acted like such a baby over a little temporary pain, but when she remembered that he was a lethal, cunning warrior underneath it all, the sight of him blood-stained and masturbating left her hot and bothered.

Belle dropped the stained terrycloth into the basin she'd fetched from their en-suite, staining the water a rosy shade of pink, and began to clean him off with the full, flat width of her tongue. Ives' free hand buried itself in her hair, pushing her toward his throbbing cock, but Belle pushed back. She was insistent that the muck be gone so he could heal properly before they got to the fun parts, but the bath didn't have to be boring. He deserved a little teasing for running amok.

She pinned his hand to his side, and made sure to rest any of her weight against his stomach. When the baser urges finally started to abate, he was going to be in a world of pain. Until then, she simply enjoyed the tortured groans of delight that her tongue on his nipple drew out of him.

"That's right, sweetie," Belle smiled against his skin, pressing a line of kisses over his racing heart. He was slick with sweat and saliva, and the sound of his third climax in thirty minutes brought Belle wretchedly close to her own frenzy. "Almost done."

Ives was too far gone in his own frantic pumping to answer coherently.

When he laced his fingers through her hair and begged her to tend to him with a low whine and dark eyes, she finally relented. He was clean (mostly) and had a good start on making another mess all over her clean linens. Belle pressed a gentle kiss onto the tender skin over his distended stomach, and found a place lower on the bed where she could straddle his legs to keep him still and support her own weight without discomforting him.

She started slowly, lapping up his seed in a series of slowly shrinking concentric circles. He'd given up stroking himself, settling instead for grasping at the sheets and Belle's chestnut curls in intervals, and was near to crying by the time she reached his heavy, throbbing flesh.

"Oh sweetie," Belle groaned, seeing exactly how raw he'd rubbed himself in his haste. It was healing, but not fast enough to avoid serious discomfort if they didn't treat him carefully.

Her eyes were half-lidded and her breath ragged from the taste of his essence overwhelming her taste buds, and she could feel his need shaping her own. Carefully, hyper-aware of how over-sensitized he must be, Belle lowered her lips to his hard, velvet shaft and began to cover it with slow, wet kisses. Ives made noises like a caged animal, too full to do much more than writhe, and Belle rewarded his patience with quick dart of her tongue across the tip.

He came in a burst, balls tightening in her palm, and Belle licked him clean again — savoring the taste of his body. Ives was already hard and throbbing again when Belle returned her attention to his cock, wrapping her lips around him and drawing him into her mouth. He tried to thrust up and make her go faster, even leaning in a bit to reach for her, but the pain in his gut sent him back to his perch on the pillows. She had him at her mercy, and — worse yet — she knew it.

"You'll spoil your dinner doing that," he growled, spilling himself again into her mouth.

"Baby, this is my dinner tonight," said Belle, releasing him to lick the remainder from her swollen lips.

The sound he made in response could barely be called human, but Belle pressed on. He was hardening again, and healing, so she wrapped her hand around his base and began to pump him gently. Just because he needed the release didn't mean she was willing to abuse one of her favorite things to give him the hot, fast fucking he craved. Besides, she liked to watch him squirm.

He came three more times before she finally relented to her own need for him and lowered herself onto his cock. Belle couldn't risk pressing down on his stomach, so she rode him reverse, giving him a full view of her ass and their joining flesh, as she worked herself up and down atop him. They lost count of how many times she brought him off, not stopping until the hot, sticky mess between their legs became more of a hindrance than a help.

Belle turned herself around, dismounting him so he could see her — flushed and glistening — towering over him, both knees planted on the mattress. She ran one hand over her breasts, pinching at the hardness of her nipples, and ran the other up and down her clit, smearing the evidence of their union across her skin. When Belle let out a deep moan, Ives snatched her hands away and replaced her hands with his. Belle took the reprieve gladly, making a show of licking her come-drenched fingers clean.

Ives brought her off quickly, his clever fingers deft and swift despite his predicament, and Belle returned the favor, wrapping her hands around him. He had another three gut-wrenching orgasms in him before his cock finally lay flaccid, and Belle collapsed on the mattress next to him, perfectly content.

"I think I need to wash up a bit," she smiled, kissing his neck.

Ives leaned over to conquer her neck, but the pain of sudden movement caused him to wince half-way through.

"You need to rest," Belle chided, urging him back onto the pillows. "We've probably got about twenty minutes before that," she said, gesturing to his groin, "wakes up again. I'm going to wash up and make another pot of tea. You take another aspirin, try to sleep. I'll be back shortly."

When she returned, Francis already had himself close to completion again. Belle helped herself to the finale, licking him clean, and tried to make him take another dose of his medicine.

"Belle, I don't want tea," he snarled, deadly serious. Ives used what mobility he had to drag Belle back astride him in a sitting position, this time pressing his nose against her clit and inhaling her bouquet. She balanced herself primly, using the head board to support most of her weight, and eased herself into a sitting position, wrapped around his face.

"You'll get sick if you eat any more," she objected half-heartedly, already so close to release that she could feel the aching need blooming between her legs.

Ives mumbled something back that sounded like "worth it," before adding his teeth to the mix. He either needed to binge more often or never again; Belle wasn't sure which.

Fin.


	7. Pride and Other Poisons (PG-13)

_AN: This is a Victorian Rumbelle AU Teaser. You can look forward to an R-rated chapter fic from me in the future with this as its first chapter. For the purposes of this story, though, let's call it a solid PG. Maybe PG-13? There's a bit of substance abuse and violence, so I guess it's that. (PG-13)_

**Chapter 1**

**I. Dens of Iniquity**

Sir Maurice Avon knew that he'd been beat. The gambling halls and gentlemen's clubs of of London were a fool's respite, one strong drink a coach-and-four away from debtor's prison. He'd thought, perhaps, that Lady Luck might grace him for an hour or two; he wanted only enough cash to settle his most pressing accounts in town, hire a post horse, and perhaps purchase some small trinket for his ward. Instead, he found himself offering up an I.O.U. to the Viscount of Sonnachdubh, a violently tempered Scotsman who dabbled in trade and had contrived to be elevated to the rank of second son from that of plebe. He was the unacknowledged bastard or a Lord, foisted off onto some poor Weaver's daughter; the story was well known among the gossips, as was the tale of the man's unlikely ascension of rank and entrance into the peerage.

Sonnachdubh bore the gaunt look of an opium-eater, and though his well-fitted frock coat and cravat added to his air of consequence and height, he stood not more than half-a-head taller than a lady in her slippers. The Viscount was also lame in one leg, a war wound from the early rebellions in Spain, and his cane's bite was feared up and down the Thames, all the way to Edinburgh, by street urchins and businessmen alike.

Maurice thought the Viscount looked more like he belonged in the Penal Colonies than in an estate of the peerage, Scotsman or no. The man was known to be poisonous, violent, proud, and fond of cards. No one else would extend him any credit, nor the courtesy of a game, and so he'd taken a seat at the Viscount's table. Then, plied by a bit of luck and the other man's pungent drink, he'd lost everything.

Sonnachdubh poured them each another measure of absinthe, green and swirling with the scent of fennel and wormwood, as they prepared to settle their accounts. He would have to make his excuses; there was not a single pound in his pocket, nor in his accounts. The Scotsman added four steady drops of saffron-red laudanum to his own glass, from a small hip flask, leaving the tincture to hang like blood, suspended in the green liquor. As Maurice did his best to explain himself, the Viscount downed his drink in one swift gulp.

"I'm not a man who likes to trade in credit," growled Sonnachdubh, a small cluster of golden teeth along his bottom jaw showing through the hard grimace. "As it happens, I've bought up quite a few of your notes. I'd like arrangements made before you return home."

He slid a piece of paper from his palm, passing it to Maurice; the figure written on it was astronomical, more than his estate could make in half a decade if all other expenses were ignored. A cold sweat broke out on the portly man's brow — the Viscount had not simply collected his notes, he'd collected all the notes. Bankruptcy did not even begin to cover the amount, and, to his shame, it was a fair number. Perhaps a tad on the low side, meaning the vile man had probably missed a few — the butcher, the tailor, small household accounts that wouldn't have come to much more than twenty pounds.

Maurice knew he'd over-extended himself, but all his life he'd struggled to persevere without descending to the ranks of working poor thronging in the streets and clamoring for alms. He'd failed; he'd failed his ancestors, his title, his land, himself, and his ward.

"There… there must be something else?" he offered, struggling to maintain his composure. He could not pay, and Sonnachdubh was within his rights to clap him in irons or — if rumors were to be believed — to beat him with his gold-topped cane. They said he was the devil incarnate, as likely to shoot a man as look at him, and — in the Reign of Her Majesty, 1857, in a club full of disreputable men — Maurice did not want to die in a London alley, broken by a stick of gold and ebony.

"I'd like my money," glowered the man, adjusting his coat and donning his top hat. "Have your banker's cheque tomorrow, during the regular visiting hours."

"There isn't any money," moaned Maurice. "I haven't got it. If you'll take my note, I'll… I'll…"

It killed him to say it so plainly, but that was the truth of it. For the Viscount to have bought up his I.O.U.s in the first place, he must have known that. Whatever he wanted, he would have it — his estate was heavily mortgaged, but it might be sold off easily enough in small bundles. Or perhaps he was working with the railroad; Maurice had refused them access to his lands several years ago, but they'd found a way around. He and his girl wouldn't need much, just a dower cottage and a little income — at least until she and the Judge's son could be married.

Lord, the Judge. The Right Honorable George Frontland III did not like that his son, George IV, was engaged to marry the penniless ward of a penniless squire. It pained him to leave her alone in their house. Anything could happen to his Belle…. Still, he'd settled with the lawyers that the younger Frontland should inherit his title — it was all the dowry he had to give the girl, now that it looked like the mortgage on the estate was heading sour — and that had, at long last, been enough for the Judge to consent. What would the proud Judge say now?

"So offer me something else," glowered the Viscount, his smile as deadly as the cane. They kept their voices low so as not to make a scene..

"I have some books left in the library, that might be sold. Latin and Greek masters, all very neatly bound. I've a small trust, not much, but a little that I could take out in capital and invest. Or there's the interest, if you'd take the sum paid out over time. Belle and I don't need—"

"Belle?" asked the man, pulling his kid-gloves slowly onto his long, lean hands.

The look on Sonnachdubh's face made Maurice ill. He knew. The bastard knew all about her, and before the words even formed, Sir Maurice could see how their negotiations would end. The Viscount would demand his ward in exchange for the lien on his properties, and that darling girl — the one he'd saved as a babe from the Jacobins, who he loved as dearly as if she were his own flesh and blood — would be taken from him.

"She is engaged…" he stammered, trying to un-say his mistake.

"I'm not looking to marry the girl," snapped Sonnachdubh. "I'll take her to serve me in my country house."

"Never," Maurice swore, his blood raging. The penalty for murder couldn't be much worse than a lifetime in the poor house; surely he could throttle the slender cripple with his own cane before the constable came? It would keep Belle safe from the lecherous beast, at least for a few more weeks.

"Then what? Is she to play at Dickens and support the pair of you on her sewing? I will claim your lands, your estate, your property — everything you hold dear, I will take by right of law, and I will sell it to the first climber who makes me a lucrative offer. What of your girl then? Will the genteel folk hire the bastard daughter of a soldier and a poor squire's ward for a governess, hn?"

"How do you know—"

"Never mind how I know. Do we have a deal, or shall I have them take you away in chains?" The Viscount's coarse brogue thickened with every syllable. He was no gentleman, of that Maurice was now certain.

"Chains," vowed Maurice. "You won't have her, not so long as I can prevent you."

Less than an hour later, after the Viscount had drunk another heady glass of absinthe and laudanum, the bailiff came to take Maurice away. Sonnachdubh looked to be in his own world, barely pausing to acknowledge Maurice in parting.

He had failed; all was lost.

**II. The Midnight Ride**

Belle French, so-named for her French mother and lack of any other proper parentage, was shocked when she found the Viscount of Sonnachdubh waiting for her in Judge Frontland's drawing room. She had been at rest in the Judge's library, her one pleasure in staying with her fiance's household. When the footman summoned her, she'd expected to see her father — not this impish man, clothed only in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.

Sir Maurice had raised her, almost from infancy, and she'd expected him home from London two days prior. The lack of news made her restless, and when she was restless she liked to read. The library was her only comfort for the two nights of waiting, and it contained more volumes than she'd ever imagined. George disliked sitting with her when she struggled through her Latin and Greek; it was hard enough upon him that he'd never mastered the languages, barely scraping through the dons of Oxford, but to see her work through it for pleasure sent him into doldrums that lasted well past supper.

Maurice had taught Belle at his knee, yet he refused to let her advertise for a post as a tutor or governess. They needed the money, and she'd enough accomplishments to shock most polite company, just not the right ones. In these matters, as in all others, she also lacked pedigree. Instead of music, they learned arithmetic; instead of drawing, her father taught her the constellations; in place of dance, the new discoveries of the natural sciences took shape. He did not know what knowledge best befitted a Lady (or the bastard ward of a Squire), so he simply taught her the same impractical wonders that had rendered him incapable of finding an occupation. Neither of them knew he'd been doing her a greater disservice than help in the end, but it was too late for a finishing school now — and they had no money to pay for one, at any rate.

She knew things, things that progressives and liberals bandied about, and it was all together better if she didn't speak much in the Judge's house. The Judge had a peculiar way of looking at her when she and George sat side by side, usually with her reading aloud to him in English while he tolerated it all good-heartedly; his eyes would darken, and his scowl deepen. Ever since a strange encounter when she was barely turned fourteen, she'd endeavored to stay away from him, and was careful to visit only with George in accompaniment The invitation to join the Judge in his study set Belle immediately on edge. Even if her father was returned from his business, the Judge could not have any honorable reason to ask for her company so late in the evening.

"Miss French," the Judge said, ushering her in. His eyes lingered overly-long on her uncovered arms. "Welcome, please allow me to present Lord Rumford Gold, Viscount of Sonnachdubh."

"My Lord," Belle replied, doing her best to dip into a curtsy. The Judge often mocked her clumsy attempts, so she focused on performing properly; George didn't seem to mind that she couldn't demure on demand, but — then again — for all that he was sweet, loyal, and kind, George didn't mind much of anything, except Greek and Latin texts.

Despite the Viscount's state of undress, Belle felt herself equally ill-met. She wore one of her mother's old dresses, fitted up under the long shadow of the Reign of Terror and Napoleon's armies in cold indifference to the Jacobin agenda. It was, as all of her wardrobe, refitted to suit as best it could; the neck line was immodest, the ruffles out of style, and the lace beginning to yellow, but it was the best dress she owned. Her others were all similar, equally out of style, and none of her simpler frocks would do to sit at the Judge's table.

"Miss French," the Viscount intoned, his voice cold and severe, "I am afraid I have some unpleasant news. Your patron, Sir Maurice, has been taken to prison until he can repay his debts. I am now the sole holder of his notes."

Belle knew the shock and pain of it all must have been written on her face, and she did her best to school her features. If he spoke truthfully, then her father needed her. He was a good gentleman from an old family, the new ways of industry did not suit him — but failure to adapt was not a crime. Prison would kill her father, he barely knew the world, aside from Paris, London and the fire-side of his own study.

"Naturally," added the Judge, adjusting his white wig, "this will change the nature of the understanding between yourself and my son."

He was looking at her so meaningfully, and — for a moment — Belle thought he meant to reach for her hand with his own, but Sonnachdubh interrupted.

"No, there will be no more weddings," he said ominously.

Belle agreed. She didn't have it in her to fight for a marriage of warming friendship, when her father needed her in a freezing London jail. "I must go to him, and see what can be done — if anything. Judge Frontland, I know I've no right to ask anything further of you, but if you… if you would… oh, please, won't you help me on my way to London? You must see that he needs me."

"Yes, yes," the Judge whispered, looking pale, "You shall have use of the carriage to take you on the morrow. And tonight…."

"Sir?"

"You will marry me," said the Judge. "It will be only a matter of weeks before the paperwork can be obtained. You could consider it my wedding gift to you."

Belle looked aghast. He'd always been horrible to her, and the plan would crush poor George. How could she marry where neither warmth nor friendship lingered to a man who haunted and terrified her?

"You would save my father?"

"I would have you," he replied, and the words sent a surge of bile to her throat.

"There is another way," Sonnachdubh cut in, pulling himself to his feet.

"Wh… what is it?" Belle asked, terrified by her choices as much as the strange Viscount's eerie air.

"I have an indenturement contract in my hand, Miss French. If you agree to come and work for me, I will see to it that Sir Maurice is released, and restore his lands to him post haste."

"Now see here!" objected the Judge, slamming his port glass down on the mantle.

"You will find it's all done-up very neat," Sonnachdubh spat at him, voice dripping with contempt. "All legal and notarized; the woman need only sign her name. You can write your name, can't you?"

"Well of course I—"

"Then please do," he continued, handing the contract to her.

"And I needn't marry?"

"In truth, I vow that you never will."

Belle wasn't sure whether to take that as a kind comfort or a veiled threat, and she nearly collapsed into the nearest chair to read his terms of indent. The Judge was at her arm, instantly, snatching at the contract.

"Belle, do not be absurd. Surely I am a better alternative than this… this slavery."

"Let her decide for herself, Frontland," spat the Viscount, taking a long pull from the flask he kept tucked into the breast of his waistcoat. He brandished his cane at the Judge and the man stepped back quickly, giving her the space she needed to think clearly.

Belle looked at the Judge, and her skin crawled over her bones at the thought him touching her. All was lost — her home, her father, her humble hopes. She had to be strong. In trembling hands, she picked up Sonnachdubh's contract and began to sift through. He would, indeed, restore Sir Maurice's property, but in exchange….

"What are you doing?" demanded the Viscount, leering down at her as the Judge glared daggers into the pair of them from across the room.

"Reading your offer?" Belle responded, unsure of whether or not he would like that answer. If he was to be her new master, she would have to learn quickly what he expected of her.

He seemed startled by that, so she returned to the document. He would restore Sir Maurice's lands, but he wanted her in service to him for the rest of her life. Basic provisions were made: she was to be clothed and fed, but all she had would come from his generosity alone. Once installed, she was never to stray from his estate, or Sir Maurice would be asked once more to repay his debts — of which, it seemed, there were plenty.

"May I have a day? I'd like a lawyer to advise —"

"No," the Scotsman half-shouted, his accent thick. "You're out of time, dearie."

"I… Alright. May I have a pen, please?" Belle's hand shook as she signed, but she swallowed down her fear like a bitter medicine and rooted it to her gut. She would be brave, purely and simply brave, until her inner feelings mirrored her outer demeanor. Lord Sonnachdubh may be a bully and a scoundrel, but she knew all that she needed to: the choices were a life time of indenturement to this stranger would be preferable to marrying Frontland. At least he wanted her for the work she could do, not to warm his bed and boss around in the bedroom.

Upon seeing the cold, calculating look in his eye turn to one of cruel delight, Belle began to doubt her resolve. Still, it was decided, and her papa, his lands, their household… all that would be spared. She screwed down her fear again, and vowed not to faint, not to shed a tear.

After that, Belle felt as though she were moving numb through a dream, as though her life was playing out before her on some London stage, and she was only one member of an audience filled with spies. The servants fetched her trunk, but the Viscount insisted that she leave it behind. Wearing only her nearly threadbare evening gown and hearing the town clock tower striking midnight somewhere in the distance, Belle lifted herself into the Viscount's landau. She'd never entered a carriage unassisted before, and was sure she'd made a debacle of herself, but the Viscount joined her a moment later without commentary.

The driver whipped their set of four back to life, and they took off down the Judge's graveled drive at a quick pace. The Viscount did not speak, and — frightfully aware of her rapidly changing circumstances — Belle dared not break the silence with her own shaking voice. He drank from a small flask, told the footman to shoot her if she caused a fuss or tried to escape, and somehow managed to sleep.

Potholes and the damp, cold night kept Belle awake. She feared this man, though he looked common enough with his eyes shut. They were the Devil's own eyes, when he opened them: steely, intense, and full of hate. Finally, after hours on the road, her body and mind ached equally; Belle forced herself to stay upright, and bit back the urge to weep.

**III. A Dram of Laudanum**

Gold could see the girl shaking like a leaf in the seat across from him. He had nothing to say to her, and no one of her lineage had anything to say to him. Not ever. The selfish, privileged child dressed up like a Parisian harlot — like mother like daughter — would learn soon enough what it meant to lose the trappings of an over-spending, spoiling father and serve like a common field-hand. She should have stayed with the monster she knew rather than run off with the one she did not. Her body in the lecherous old villain's embrace would have been a small burden compared to his own unflinching hatred.

The girl continued to shiver, and Gold couldn't stand the sight of her. His leg ached from days on the road, and his head throbbed — the sway of the landau made him feel almost ill. He fingered the small vial of medicinal opium in his pocket, but satisfied himself with another drag of the alcoholic, spiced laudanum. Poets sweated and wept up and down China Towne for a snifter of his personal supplies, but he had to remain alert lest the little bitch decide she liked to bite.

Slowly the poppy began to work its magic and he felt himself begin to float above the padded seats and his head began to swim. Gold knocked three times against the coachman's seat and gave the order to shoot her if she tried to leave. Then he tipped his top hat over his eyes and drifted off into a laudanum-fueled state of semi-lucid sleep.

Spain, 1838, and of places he wished never to see danced in front of his eyes, maddening his brain. As a thin veil of sweat formed against his skin, he saw the thin, pale French girl brandishing a rifle in her Carlist blues. She was bashing an Englishman's skull in with a heavy shillelagh, the blood and skull blooming like opium fields on the green grass beneath her victims. She was moving down the row to the next man, each one erupting in a splash of petals and blood-smear. They were all prisoners, all as good as dead; Spaniards took no captives, they were savages, like the French girl.

A world away, men were dying in Crimea; in Gold's mind, the same old atrocities looped through in a spiraling tempest that refused to let go of him. He was next. She was going to bash his head in next.

Gold knew he had to save himself, even if he couldn't save his men, and he slashed violently at the girl with a make-shift blade fashioned from a broken bayonet. The happy songs of Italian Carnivale drifted in, and he stood with blood-stained hands in front of an army of jaunty Harlequins. No matter how he slashed, he could not discover the true culprit. It was always her doubles, uncanny doppelgangers, mocking and circling him.

Finally the masques dissolved, revealing the shockingly blue eyes of his newest acquisition. Then another followed suit, and it was the same — he stood alone against an army of her, grinning cold and cruel as his panic settled in. Gold attacked them, shocked to see his bayonet shard had been reduced to a white feather. The white feather of the coward.

He was not a coward. He was not a coward. He was not a coward.

Gold tore the limbs from the Harlequins, one by one, bashing in the girls' face with heavy rocks. She would stop smiling so smugly; she would repay her debt. As her blood dripped and pooled, it began flaking away like pieces of ash or butterfly wings into wafting, red poppy petals on the warm summer winds.

A canon fired, felling the last jester, and Gold woke with a start. Brow slick with sweat, he heard the tell-tale trotting of a team of horses on cobbled streets. They must have crossed into London in the night, and from there back to the Sonnachdubh estate.

He opened his eyes. The girl was leaning over him, a look he did not recognize plastered to her face. Gold pushed her away, shaking her, and shouting.

"Never touch me, do you hear me? Dinnae, ever, ever touch me!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she begged, looking terrified. Good. She should be afraid. "I thought you were having a fit, I just wanted to help—"

"No one can help me," Gold snarled, throwing her back into her own seat, "least of all you." And, with that, he took another long pull from his flask and dropped off into the realm of memory and regret.

To Be Continued in the Coming Weeks…


	8. It's a Party (NC-17)

_AN: This is another one to skip if you're not comfortable with sex. Jumbelle: Jefferson/Gold/Belle three way, Sequel to _Three is not a Crowd_, which you can find on my Tumblr. Username: CrankyNerdGirl. It's not that this story doesn't make sense without the prequel, it's just PwP without the build-in. Anyway, if you're still reading, enjoy! (NC-17)_

Belle was just about fed up with her men; Rumpelstiltskin would forget his own cane if he could manage more than half a dozen steps without it, always caught up scheming and thinking about his plans to the point of mundane distraction, and Jefferson was always so skittish — so unsure if he was really welcome — that (unless Rumpelstiltskin remembered to invite him over outright) he'd circle the block three times before (maybe) knocking. She'd had as much Mother Goosing them into couple's activities as she could take; it would be so much easier if Rumpelstiltskin would just tell the Hatter that he loved him, or if the Hatter would do the same. Instead, they passed their unwritten love notes through her, and Belle — though it was phenomenal to be adored by two such strong, different men — was just about done playing delivery girl.

So, on the night of Mr. Gold's 50th Birthday, Belle contrived to send the kids off with their maternal grandparents and made plans to stay in.

She had Jefferson arrive early — he was independently wealthy and practically lived with them anyway, work was the farthest thing from his mind. Her poor Rumpelstiltskin wouldn't be in until after seven — no matter the occasion, he liked to stay busy. Belle thought she could have sweet-talked him into coming home early, but that would have ruined the surprise.

"Are you sure this is alright?" the Hatter asked, her nervously pacing as she put the finishing touches on their dinner.

"Yes, Jefferson. For the last time, you are part of this family."

"It's just that he didn't invite me…"

"I'm inviting you. Honestly, Jefferson, he likes you."

"Are you sure the Charmings can handle all three of them for the night?"

"They've never had a problem before," she soothed, slicing up mushrooms for their steaks. Rumpelstiltskin had fairly simple tastes, which he liked to see executed elegantly: a steak with sauteed mushrooms, salad, and a fine wine suited him perfectly.

"I just—"

"Jefferson," she interrupted, exasperated at last. "I know I'm just the extra guest in the bed from your point of view, but I'm telling you that we want you here. You have to learn to trust me a little bit."

"I… you think I don't like you?"

"Not as much as you like him," Belle replied, sliding her chopped mushrooms into the frying pan. Rumpelstiltskin was due home any minute. "But that's OK," she continued, turning to cup his cheek. "Because I like you, and you and Grace are part of this family for as long as you want to be, alright?"

Belle turned back to the stove, which was easy enough to work with once she'd mastered the knobs. They had their entrees broiling, ready to come out and rest in the next three minutes, a bowl of mixed greens and dressing, sauteed mushrooms, and a loaf of crusty, fresh-baked bread. All they needed was the birthday boy.

"Belle…" Jefferson started, sounding half-mad. "I… I adore you. And Grace loves you too, it's just… you're his."

"That she is," growled the gentle brogue of Mr. Gold from the kitchen doorway. He'd taken them by surprise, a testament to his grace and dexterity — even with the aid of his cane. "Are we having a party, dearies?"

"Something like that," Belle grinned, spinning to see him. Her pale blue sundress twirled around her legs, and her smile brightened the room. "It's your birthday!"

"Is it?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, shrugging off his suit jacket. "Dinner smells lovely."

"It is according to Regina's made-up dates," Jefferson confirmed, smiling bashfully. "And even if it isn't really, happy un-birthday anyway."

They settled in for a lovely meal together, discussing their children and anything else that came to mind. The wine flowed freely, and by the end of it all three of them were anxious to retreat to the California King bed in Mr. Gold's lavish bedroom.

"So what were you saying about being his?" Belle whispered, pressing her lips to Jefferson's neck.

Gold loosed a low, rough growl from his seat on the edge of the bed. They knew how much he liked to watch the younger man fuck his wife, taking control of both of them until he was ready to sate his own desire in whatever way he liked best.

Belle wriggled in Jefferson's arms, slipping out of her dress to reveal that she wore nothing underneath, and Jefferson wrapped his hands around her from behind. His mouth pressed long, hot kisses to her neck as his hands roamed the expanse of her pale skin. He needed this, the intimacy and closeness of it all. Belle liked him. Belle wanted him to stay with them. Rumpelstiltskin had his unwavering trust, but Belle was the one who held them both in the palm of her hand. That she found him worthy was all he'd ever needed to know, and the way she was with Grace…

Alice would have loved her. And if Alice couldn't be there to help their little girl in the world, then he was damn lucky to find someone so kind and intelligent willing to stand up and help without fashioning herself into a replacement.

Gold moaned from his place on the bed, stripping down to his boxers, giving them both a show that made their hearts race. He looked soid, lean and strong. His body was older, but the power and carriage of the man — always offset by a pair of dark, intense eyes — stirred Belle and Jefferson to the point of insanity. The Hatter's hands descended as he dipped his fingers into Belle, giving her what she needed while Gold taunted them.

When he was done undressing, Gold circled them and finally began to undress Jefferson from behind as the Hatter happily fingered his wife. She was panting heavily, grinding against his hand, as both men stood — finally — sporting only a pair of tented undergarments.

"Not yet," Gold groaned, grinding himself into Jefferson and pulling the younger man's hand away from Belle.

"Please," she breathed, turning to face them. Jefferson wrapped his arms around her, nestling himself between them, and Belle pressed a peck to his cheek before capturing Rumpelstiltskin's mouth in a searing kiss.

"But it's my birthday, pet," the older man grinned when they parted for air.

Belle immediately turned her attention to Jefferson, gifting him with an equally intense kiss. All he wanted in the world was to lay her down and make love to her like she wanted him to, but the only man in the world for whom he would curb his activities has his hand wrapped deliciously around the base of his cock and was cupping his balls from behind. They both knew who held the real power in the room, and Jefferson bucked forward into Gold's hands, silently begging on his own behalf too.

"Let us spoil you for a change," grinned Belle, running her fingers down Rumpelstiltskin's neck.

"What did you have in mind?" he choked out, voice throaty as Jefferson snuck his own hands behind him to stroke the other man's throbbing cock.

"Just lie back and let us take care of you, baby," Belle replied, leading the pair of them back to the bed.

Belle settled herself between Rumpelstiltskin's legs licking and nipping at his thighs, and Jefferson joined her, adding his own tongue to the mix. Between the two of them, alternating between light licking, fluttering kisses and deep, strong sucking, they had the Spinner reduced to nearly nonsensical bliss.

The Hatter wasn't sure what she had in mind, but then she swung herself around, offering her husband access to her ass and pussy while her mouth continued to tease him from astride his torso. When Jefferson saw what she was doing, he dipped his finger to the rim of Gold's ass and pushed gently, asking permission. He was met with a gasping yes, and that was all he needed to continue.

Rumpelstiltskin thrust into Belles mouth and hands, burying his face in her hot wetness. Jefferson heard her climax more than he saw it, and he felt Gold resume his frantic attentions as he prepared him to be mounted. By the time Jefferson was satisfied that Gold could take him, Belle had recovered from her pleasure enough to quicken her long, deep strokes, swallowing as much of her husband as she could and pumping the rest with her hands.

Jefferson eased Rumpelstiltskin's good leg over his shoulder, careful of his old war wound, and slowly sheathed himself in the hot, tight body of his lover. The other man gripped him like a vice, and they three of them carefully built up a rhythm that had the pawnbroker begging for release.

Belle's eyes met Jefferson's, and they coordinated their efforts: she swirled her tongue around his tip, stroking him in time with the Hatter's deep thrusts, and Rumpelstiltskin fell to pieces on the bed with Jefferson finishing inside him. Belle licked Gold clean, swallowing everything he gave her, and the three of them collapsed, exhausted, on the sheets.

"Happy Birthday," Belle whispered, kissing each of them lazily.

"Indeed," grinned Gold, eyes heavy.

Belle nestled her head under Gold's chin, and Jefferson wrapped himself around the petite woman, holding on to her like a life preserver. She loved him, and she trusted him to be part of this — their special night. Next time, he would find a way to make it special for her. To thank her for being the one thing, besides Grace and Bae, that kept both of them sane in this magical, terrible, wonderful, place.

Fin.


	9. Tea for Two (PG)

_AN: If you're not aware, there's about 15 seconds of un-aired footage from Skin Deep. You can find it on You Tube under "Deleted Rumbelle Scene." Go ahead, I'll wait. Anyway, the premise of this fic is that it works that scene back into the episode. "Canon" compliant. (PG-13)_

Belle laid out the tea tray promptly at six thirty each day, after she'd tended to the primary fires and seen that the basket of straw was in its customary place. Rumpelstiltskin was a mercurial master in the mornings, sometimes clever, sometimes melancholy, but — invariably — he took his morning tea in the Great Hall between six thirty and six forty. It annoyed Belle more than it ought that the little mantle-clock sitting beneath one of his tapestries had traveled onward to quarter of seven and she still hadn't heard so much as a peep from him.

Well, he certainly wasn't obligated to take tea with her. It was only her job to serve him, not keep him company, and here she was fretting away that Rumpelstiltskin, the Dark One, was five minutes late to breakfast. As far as she could tell, the man lived on tea and air. She had her own bit of bread and butter waiting for her in the kitchen, and an egg or two if she cared to soft-boil them, but she still waited every day to drink that first invigorating cup with the leather-clad Imp who captivated — no, that wasn't quite right — who captured her.

She made her way to the small clock, checking to see that it hadn't gone awry. No, the cogs were ticking slow and even; it wasn't broken, he was just late. Belle let out a little sigh of frustration and tried to combat the scowl taking over her face.

"Cross, dearie?"

Belle jumped with fright, heart racing.

"You startled me!" she gasped, turning to face him. "And you were late."

Rumpelstiltskin merely inclined his head, grinning, and helped himself to tea. He chose the chipped cup, the same as always, and Belle circled around to join him. This was her life now: and she enjoyed their quiet mornings. She wondered sometimes if he slept, and dreamed like a normal person, or if there were nightmares. Sometimes he got a far-away look in his eye that spoke of horrors — maybe remembered, maybe imagined — and it broke her heart.

But Belle refused to dwell too long on the sadness he only showed to her (or, more aptly, showed to no one, and then forgot to hide when he thought no one was looking) and perched herself on the edge of the table, arranging her skirts. He'd have to get her a chair sooner or later, or maybe she'd just drag one in — slowly conquer the Hall as she had her new bedroom. Anything was possible.

"Why did you want me here?" Belle asked, feeling suddenly brave. The question had lurked on her lips for a week, but today was different — he was late today — and the timing finally felt right.

"The place was filthy," he twitted, taking a sip of tea. Of course he wouldn't really answer her, but then… she already knew the answer, didn't she?

"I think you were lonely. I mean, any man would be lonely."

"I'm not a man," he replied, not quite meeting her eyes and situating himself on the table next to her. He didn't look up from the chipped cup in his hands.

In that moment, Belle's heart broke for him. Of course he was a man. Of course he was. Monster's didn't catch their maids as they went toppling off of ladders; monsters weren't witty or clever, and they didn't listen when people talked — really listened! — as though she had something worth saying. All Gaston did was nod and grimace, but Rumpelstiltskin… he was a man. He just needed to be reminded.

Suddenly, Belle thought she knew what would make him stop the never-ending process of forgetting.

"So I've had a couple of months to look around, you know, and uh…" she started cautiously, "upstairs there's… clothing. Small, as if for a child?"

Recognition flashed across his features, and she knew she'd spoken justly. The wisdom of it all remained to be seen, but — seeing him now, eyes open and breathing deeply — she didn't dare let him slip back into the veil of apathy.

"Was it yours, or… or was there a son?" she continued. Her curiosity about his past was more than just academic, and she tried to let her care shine through into her words. He had to know she thought of him as… well, perhaps not as a friend, exactly. But she thought of him. He had to know that much at least, even if he didn't want to believe it.

His silence cut her like a knife, and for a few pulse-thrumming seconds, Belle thought she'd gone too far; what would she do if she scared him away? Imagine that, the Dark One afraid of his little maid. If it wasn't her life, if she didn't see it every day, she'd call it too fantastical for even the Old Wives' to peddle at the hearth-side.

Still he said nothing. That was it then, she'd ruined it. He—

"There was," he started, as if he'd just unearthed an old memory. "There was a son. I lost him, as I did his mother." The words came out evenly, but Belle could see the firm line of his lips, pressed together to keep them from shaking, and the frown that he fought to control. His eyes were the blackest they'd ever been, and Belle felt herself irrationally angry at whatever could have hurt him so badly that it made him afraid to speak openly.

"I… I'm sorry," she offered, knowing it could never be enough but hoping it would help anyway.

This man… what was he? When he forgot to play the cackling Imp, she could almost see… And he wasn't the monster the stories claimed. She lived with him now, she'd seen his ways. If not for the sudden fits of rage and ennui that seemed to tug at him in opposite directions, what sort of a wonder might he be? There was a kindness in him, buried deep.

He was a man. A man who, after all this time, still mourned for his family. The things they said about him in Avonlea… Maybe it was all true, but they didn't see everything. The fish-wives and kings saw only what he wanted them to see, and — miraculously — he was finally not hiding behind the pomp and pea-cocking.

"So you were a man once. An ordinary man?" Belle asked, looking at him. He was lost, a million miles away, gazing into the contents of his tea cup. She should leave him to his thoughts, but… she had to know. And today was the day — a good day for change.

"If I'm never going to know another person in my whole life, can't I at least know you?"

"Perhaps," Rumpelstiltskin replied, rising to his feet and turning to face her. She watched as the masque of the Imp slid back across his features, but his words lacked their usual bite and malevolence. "Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weakness, eh? Ne, ne. Ne-ne-ne."

She smiled at that, pleased to have seen him at his most open, but somehow equally pleased to have her old Imp back. The man had so many faces, how could she begin to know any of them? Try, the voice of hope and reason said in the recesses of her mind. Try, and you will see.

"You're not a monster," Belle told him. Then, she had an idea. "You think you're uglier than you are, that's why you cover all the mirrors up, isn't it. Hn?"

His expression looked conflicted, and Belle took it upon herself to rise and walk toward the mirror. If he could see himself as she saw him, not as monster, but as a man with so much potential, maybe he would stop looking so sad when he thought she could not see him. The weariness she saw in his eyes spoke of centuries of loneliness, but in reality it might only have been a few decades. Sorrow had a way of changing people, but Belle knew in her heart that Rumpelstiltskin still had a soul left to reclaim.

"Come and look," she asked him, "you'll see what I see."

Rumpelstiltskin was up in a flash, hands planted on her waist. He never touched her, not purposely. The last time he'd held her like this, she'd still been in her father's castle. Rumpelstiltskin had kept close to her then, probably to stop her from running, and she'd done her best not to let them see her shaking. They would say she was brave, if she was lucky; her father hadn't needed to know how gut-wrenchingly afraid she was, how small she felt — a pawn to be played.

Yet she'd stood up and decided her own fate, feeling for the first time in her life like a golden queen in her old, tattered ball gown.

This time it felt different, though. Rumpelstiltskin had his hands on her waist, nearing her rib cage, and she could feel his warm breath on her cheek as he spoke.

"Not so fast, dearie. There are other uses for a mirror besides making yourself lovely."

"Like what?" Belle asked, intrigued, heart racing, and unwilling to step away.

"All kinds of nasty things." His voice was gravely and low, the furthest from the Imp's she'd ever heard him use. It sent a jolt straight through her legs, and Belle felt her body tingling in response to him.

"What happened to your family?" she asked, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she tried and failed not to react visibly. What he must think of her, acting like a lusty adolescent from perfectly normal things. Except this wasn't normal at all, he never touched her. That was something they'd have to change.

Without meaning to, she closed the small gap remaining between them. The feel of his chest against her back and his hands slowly sliding up her body sent another jolt running through her. Belle inhaled deeply.

When Rumpelstiltskin finally answered her, his own breath was ragged.

"What happened," he said, ghosting the tip of his nose through her hair, "is I'm a difficult man to love."

His breath hitched again, and Belle felt herself falter. Her body betrayed her sense of propriety, and she leaned into his almost-caress, lost in the sensation and warmth of him.

When she didn't pull away, Rumpelstiltskin pressed his nose further into her hair, breathing her in. Belle could feel the evidence of his arousal, the tightness of his fingers as though he feared she'd slip away, and her heart broke for the sad, lonely man who brought her such sinful pleasure.

She turned to face him, unsure if she meant to stop him or kiss him. They were interrupted by a bold knocking from the foyer.

Why? Why hadn't he been on time, then they'd be five minutes further along with… with whatever wonderful new thing that was blossoming between him. Don't leave, she begged silently, knowing it was useless. Reluctantly, Rumpelstiltskin let go of her and marched with a sort of cold, determined fury toward the door.

The moment was shattered, like dropped porcelain or a broken mirror.

_Fin._


	10. Bewitch the Mind (PG-13)

_AN: I've got nothing. If you've made it this far, you'll probably like it. Also, ouch, my Snape feelings. (PG-13)_

Magic: that most primeval of forces, spinning outward from the cardinal sin of commerce. It could give a man anything, anything at all, but always for a price. The cruelest irony of magic, the place in the seed-fields of power and annals of history where it stopped being merely parlor tricks became an adversary, was that it knew the value of everything yet cared nothing for the cost. A poor man's supper and a Lord's maiden daughter could purchase the same miracles — what mattered, in the end, was the loss and suffering.

Perhaps the Blue Fairy would not articulate it so harshly, but this living beast with divergent Hydra-heads and starving maws twisted and anguished within Rumpelstiltskin, and he knew it well. Its name was Guilt, or maybe Regret. Whatever he called it, he carried it with him — always, and always the misery spread.

Magic and pain, the two undeniable facts of life, were not improved by any number of ill-gotten gains. He didn't even want one quarter of his own possessions, it was all just rubbish that the magic accumulated in its wake.

They hadn't been garbage, though. Not his Belle, nor Bae. To him, she was everything, and he cast her out. He threw her away. It was his fault.

The Grail gathered dust in his cupboard, the useless spoil of another pointless deal. He knew others who would give their own mothers to take it from him, but — like all the pieces in his collection — it was not for sale. They stood as reminders, a testament to his power and a mausoleum to his failure. Everything in the castle was dusty, forgotten with the turn of a wooden wheel, except for a small, chipped cup on a pedestal. Rumpelstiltskin would not — could not — simply find another girl to clean for him. That would be like trying to forget her too, a plan he'd tested on Snow White, and forgetting Belle… forgetting Belle would be like forgetting Bae. If he forgot them, he would utterly break under the magic's weight and lose all sense of meaning.

He needed to work harder, smarter, and see through his plans while they still had momentum. Rumpelstiltskin refused to let the toil of lifetimes come to nothing. The Blue Fairy would not defeat him.

It wouldn't be much longer, then he'd have room to breathe. Twenty years or so — the Fates hadn't quite settled their differences on that point — but the Curse was his own creature and he knew it better than he knew himself. It would make him forget, the Dark One would release him, and — if he was very lucky — he might even get a few nights of decent sleep, comforted by his own ignorance before it all returned again. All of the pieces were in play; he simply had to do the impossible, then find a place to lie low and wait.

Bottling love: True Love, more to the point. It was easy enough to brew up a wave of lust or a haze of fondness that lasted a few days, but True Love? True Love was Bae and Belle and sunlight caught in the window pane, with dusty drapes and a muddy leather ball. He'd tried desperately, so many times he lost count, to let it be his own love that carried them over into the Land Without Magic. He commanded all the forces of the cosmos, chewed up time and spat it out, and pleaded with whatever Gods would hear him to please, please — just this one time — please let it work. Please.

It never worked. He'd seen every future in every reality, under every set of circumstances that he could concoct until the mere thought of brewing the potion with his own heart made him grow fearful and wince in pain at the poignant loss and forsaken opportunities. He hadn't know he'd failed so badly. Not until it was too late. Each and every botched brewing experiment stung, and each one ripped out another sliver of his ability to contain the beast.

Just because his pain wasn't enough to purchase a bottle of True Love from the Magic didn't mean it bought him nothing. He kept the mis-steps all tucked away, safer than any of the other junk littering his estate. They were his medicine, he their slave.

It was heady stuff to see what might have been if his love ran true. Addictive, to the point of distraction, but it was the best escape — the only escape he'd ever known. Then it would be over, and he'd have to tear the cork from another bottle with shaking hands to slake the deep ache of reality.

That was the price you paid for meddling with magic: misery.

Misery had never tasted so sweet, so hopefully overflowing with possibilities. For a time, they made him something like happy, guzzled down in messy slurps. Then he would come back to himself, a failure in the art of potion-making, bewitched by what he'd seen, and he would remember something. She died. Bae left him. Those were the days when simply forgetting seemed most tempting, but he couldn't do it. Not when he'd come so very far, and struggled for so very long.

The best ones he decanted off, sipping from his hip flask. The medicine went down like a drowning man finding air or dying man reaching water. One by one they vanished down his throat, beautiful and transcendent, never to return again. He tried to savor them, to keep the visage of her close to him as he dealt with numberless unpleasantries. High functioning, they called it.

Rumpelstiltskin became a master of this new, half-drunken sin. Every drought from the flask unfurled new memories from lives they'd never lived, a sharp counter-point to the mess of Kings and Queens taking shape around him. Stealing the shepherdess' son was particularly difficult, he'd dreamed an entire lifetime in one sitting, and when it was gone — when not a single drop remained — he wept for the faces of children he could never reclaim.

When the potion was gone, the images vanished with it, and no two were ever the same.

He'd been a gunslinger once. An outlaw on the brink of drinking himself to death, when she smiled at him. That man, the better man, protected what was his. He barely believed the stranger who, in a different reality, could have been him deserved the chances Belle gave him, but then — the gunslinger couldn't believe it either. That man had everything. Everything except for Baelfire, but Rumpelstiltskin drank himself silly anyway to look just a little longer on the chubby cheeks of his blue-eyed daughters playing dollies on the cabin floor.

Losing them to the crushing sorrow of an empty bottle nearly killed him, and that was it. He was whipped. No matter how much it hurt, Rumpelstiltskin couldn't stop himself from drinking in the next bottle.

Rumpelstiltskin knew his own love could never be bottled; it was too impure, too volatile, and the other part of the puzzle — Bae and Belle — were gone. It took components he didn't have for the Magic to set, and — poor steward that he was — he'd let them slip through his fingers. These fantasies, though… They spoke of possibility. If he'd behaved differently, then maybe… Even knowing that he needed Snow White and her Prince to make the potion work, he continued to drive himself half-mad day-dreaming.

She was in trouble in the next one. So small, and scared. But brave — yes, that was his girl brandishing a fire-iron and battering her assailant bloody. He'd married her instantly, as soon as she'd let him. He would never let her go again. The scene played out for him in the forest as he engaged in his own sword fight. Belle was safe in this drea. Bae was safe too, and they were a family.

When that one was gone, his ennui almost swallowed him. He swore them off only to pour more of the poison down his throat the second his real memories became too strong.

How differently their lives would have been if he'd simply accepted her; the lives they could have lived in the Castle astounded him, but they were — all of them — without Bae. He'd never admit how badly that tempted him. A lesser man would have gone insane, making love to her in his dreams as the fool-knight walked in; making love to her in her marriage-bed when her husband was a disinterested twit; knowing he'd never really touch her warm, soft skin again.

They should be together; in any other reality, if he made a single choice differently, they would be happy. Rumpelstiltskin felt he'd aged centuries in the span of days after he emptied the bottle where she ran away with him to have their baby, but he kept on drinking.

She loved him in the dreams, always smiled so nicely and kissed him like he meant something. They had families, grew old and died happy, with grand children he adored and when the bottle dried up he mourned their passing, knowing he'd never see them again.

At the bottom of every bottle, once it was empty, a funeral was waiting. It was a hungry, empty pit slowly eating its way through him. Rumpelstiltskin knew it was killing him, that the madness was spreading.

He didn't care, he had to have more of it.

He was dreaming stolen kisses in a wooded glade, his Lady always daring to meet him, when they carted him away to a stinking cage. He — this version of himself — had to find her again; she couldn't mean to abandon him, when she didn't know he was really…

They took his possessions when they locked him up. Fifteen paces down the hall, first door on the left. His affects were there, including the flask. Two more mouthfuls and he'd know how the story ended; two more mouthfuls, and another funeral, but at least he'd be able to see her again.

It was madness, the cruelest torture, to sit powerless with his happiness just beyond the bars. Why did he have to claim the twins? He knew they were imaginary. The Magic said he could would profit by it away, so he'd taken the risk. He had to get out of this cage.

Rumpelstiltskin needed his medicine. It made him want to be better, to deserve her, and dulled the screams of "Papa," the never-ending refrain of "she died," wracking his brain.

All magic ever brought was misery, yet there was no price he would not pay for one last taste of the stuff. Just one more, to finish the bottle, and then he would go along peacefully. She'd be alive and real, for as long as the illusion lasted, and that would be enough for him. It was all he had, so it had to be.

Maybe they were right to call him crazy.

_Fin._

**Citations: (re)read these if you need something to make it through the day. Go get 'em!**

_An Inward Treasure_ by Fyre (AO3)  
_Chevalier_ by 0ceanofdarkness (Tumblr)  
_Not a Bad Life_ by Rufeepeach (Tumblr)  
_Strange Bedfellows_ by ddagent (AO3)  
_Stolen_ by Sapsorrow86 (FFN)  
_The Tune of Bullets_ by Bad Faery (FFN)


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